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<, * ' 

T ' 3 £ 

LECTURES 

/ 

ON 

RHETORIC AND BELLES LETTRES, 

>) 

BY 

HUGH BLAIR, D.D. F.R.S. Edin. 

h 

ONE OF THE MINISTERS OF THE HIGH CHURCH, AND PROFESSOR 
OF RHETORIC AND BELLES LETTRES IN THE 
UNIVERSITY OF EDINBURGH. 


TO WHICH ARE ADDED, 

COPIOUS aUESTIONS, 

AND 

AN ANALYSIS OF EACH LECTURE* 

BY 

ABRAHAM MILLS, 

TEACHER OF RHETORIC AND BELLES LETTRES. 

s > 1 * 


NEW-YORK: 

STEREOTYPED FOR G. & C. & H. CARVILI* 
No. 108 Broadway. 




1829. 







/ 



Southern District of Nero- York , ss. 

Be it remembered, That on the 18th day of August, A. D. 1829, in the 54th year 
of the Independence of the United States of America, G. & C. & H. Carvile, of the 
said District, have deposited in this office the title of a book, the right whereof they 
claim as proprietors, in the words following - , to wit: “ Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles 
Lettres, by liugh Blair, D.D. F.R.S. Edin. one of the Ministers of the High Church, and 
Professor of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres in the University 1 of Edinburg-h. To which are 
added, Copious Questions, and an Analysis of each Lecture, by Abraham Mills, Teacher 
of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres.” 

In conformity to the act of Congress of the United States, entitled, “ An Act for the 
encouragement of Learning - , by securing the copies of Maps, Charts, and Books, to 
the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the time therein mentioned.” And 
also to an act, entitled, “ An Act, supplementary to an Act, entitled, an Act for the en¬ 
couragement of Learning, by securing the copies of Maps, Charts, and Books, to the 
authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned, and ex¬ 
tending the benefits thereof to the arts of designing, engraving, and etching historical 
and other prints.” 

FRED. J. BETTS, 

Clerk of the Southern District of New-York. 








PREFACE 


The following Lectures were read in the university of Edinburgh, for 
twenty-four years. The publication of them, at present, was not altogether 
a matter of choice. Imperfect copies of them, in manuscript, from notes 
taken by students who heard them read, were first privately handed about; 
and afterwards frequently exposed to public sale. When the author saw 
them circulate so currently, as even to be quoted in print,* and found him¬ 
self often threatened with surreptitious publications of them, he judged it to 
be high time that they should proceed from his own hand, rather than come 
into public view under some very defective and erroneous form. 

They were originally designed for the initiation of youth into the study 
of belles lettres, and of composition. With the same intention they are now 
published; and, therefore, the form of Lectures, in which they were at first 
composed, is still retained. The author gives them to the world, neither as 
a work wholly original, nor as a compilation from the writings of others. 
On every subject contained in them, he has thought for himself. He con¬ 
sulted his own ideas and reflections: and a great part of what will be found 
in these Lectures is entirely his own. At the same time he availed himself 
of the ideas and reflections of others, as far as he thought them proper to be 
adopted. To proceed in this manner, was his duty as a public professor. 
It was incumbent on him to convey to his pupils all the knowledge that 
could improve them; to deliver not merely what was new, but what might 
be useful, from whatever quarter it came. He hopes, that to such as are 
studying to cultivate their taste, to form their style, or to prepare themselves 
for public speaking or composition, his Lectures will afford a more compre¬ 
hensive view of what relates to these subjects, than, as far as he knows, is to 
be received from any one book in our language. 

In order to render his work of greater service, he has generally referred 
to the books which he consulted, as far as he remembers them; that the 
readers might be directed to any farther illustration which they afford. But, 
as such a length of time has elapsed since the first composition of these 
Lectures, he may, perhaps have adopted the sentiments of some author into 
whose writings he had then looked, without now remembering whence he 
derived them. 

In the opinions which he has delivered concerning such a variety of 
authors, and of literary matters, as come under his consideration, he cannot 
expect that all his readers will concur with him. The subjects are of such 
a nature, as allow room for much diversity of taste and sentiment: and the 
author will respectfully submit to the judgment of the public. 

Retaining the simplicity of the lecturing style, as best fitted for conveying 
instruction, he has aimed, in his language, at no more than perspicuity. If, 
after the liberties which it was necessary for him to take, in criticising the 
style of the most eminent writers in our language, his own style shall be 
thought open to reprehension, all that he can say, is, that his book will 
add one to the many proofs already afforded to the world, of its being much 
easier to give instruction, than to set example. 


* Biographia Britanica. Article Addison. 




EDITOR’S PREFACE 


The Editor of the present edition of Dr. Blair's Lectures on Rhetoric 
and Belles Lettres, has endeavoured to present the work to the public, in 
a style which he thinks will meet with entire approbation. The plates 
from which it is printed, were originally cast for Mr. George F. Hopkins, 
from a late London copy, and were, in general, found to be very correct; 
a few errors were, however, on critical examination, detected; but these 
having been carefully removed, the Editor has now no hesitation in saying, 
that this is as perfect an edition of the work, as any previously issued from 
the press, either in this country or in Great Britain. 

In addition to its correctness, this edition has to recommend it, a copious 
collection of questions, which were prepared with the greatest care and at¬ 
tention. The Editor is, however, aware, that this method of teaching has, 
by some gentlemen of science, been objected to ; and considering the man¬ 
ner in which questions have almost uniformly been written, the objection is 
certainly not without foundation. But that the student may be preserved 
from the disadvantages arising from using questions unskilfully prepared, 
and, at the same time, be relieved from the tediousness of studying the 
work without them, the Editor has been careful, so to construct these ques¬ 
tions, that the answers which they require, necessarily include every sen¬ 
tence of the work itself; thus effecting the double purpose of greatly facili¬ 
tating the recitations of classes, and, at the same time, of compelling each 
scholar to learn every word of the author. 

To the lectures that require them, the Editor has also affixed analyses, 
which are principally designed to facilitate the studies of young gentlemen 
at college, and of young ladies at school, who may be sufficiently advanced 
to pursue this course; and it affords the Editor peculiar pleasure here to 
state, that they have been used by a number of classes of young ladies, 
educated by himself, in this city, with entire success. 

In preparing these analyses, the Editor has generally followed the natural 
divisions of the lectures, as they are laid down by the author himself; but 
from the necessity of making each one of nearly the same length, he has, 
perhaps, in a few instances, extended the number of his subdivisions be¬ 
yond their natural length: he presumes, however, that no inconvenience 
will result to the student from the course which he has pursued, as the 
omission of such subdivisions as may appear unnecessary, will be attended 
with no material consequences. 

New-York, August , 1829. 



CONTENTS 


LECT. 


PAGE 


I. INTRODUCTION,. 9 

II. Taste,. 16 

III. Criticism—Genius—Pleasures of Taste—Sublimity in Objects,.. 27 

IV. The sublime in Writing,. 37 

V. Beauty and other pleasures of taste,. 49 

VI. Rise and progress of language,. 58 

VII. Rise and progress of language and of writing,. 68 

VIII. Structure of language,. 78 

IX. Structure of language—English tongue,. 89 

X. Style—Perspicuity and precision,. 77 . 101 

XI. Structure of sentences,. 112 

XII. Structure of sentences,. 128 

XIII. Structure of sentences—Harmony,.. 134 

XIV. Origin and Nature of Figurative Language,. 146 

XV. Metaphor,. 158 

XVI. Hyperbole—Personification—Apostrophe,. 169 

XVII. Comparison, Antithesis, Interrogation, Exclamation, and other figures 

of Speech,. 181 

XVIII. Figurative Language—General Characters of Style—Diffuse, Concise 

—Feeble, Nervous—Dry, Plain, Neat, Elegant, Flowery,. 192 

XIX. General characters of Style—Simple, Affected, Vehement—Directions 

for forming a proper style,. 205 

XX. Critical Examination of the Style of Mr. Addison, in No. 411 of the 

Spectator,.216 

XXL Critical Examination of the Style in No. 412 of the Spectator,.226 

XXII. Critical Examination of the Style in No. 413 of the Spectator,.235 

XXIII. Critical Examination of the Style in No. 414 of the Spectator,.242 

XXIV. Critical Examination of the Style in a Passage of Dean Swift’s writ¬ 

ings,. 250 

XXV. Eloquence, or Public Speaking—History of Eloquence—Grecian Elo¬ 

quence—Demosthenes,. .260 

XXVI. History of Eloquence continued—Roman Eloquence—Cicero—Mo¬ 
dern Eloquence,. 273 

XXVII. Different kinds of Public Speaking—Eloquence of Popular Assemblies 

—Extracts from Demosthenes,. 284 

XXVIII. Eloquence of the Bar—Analysis of Cicero’s Oration for Cluentius,... 298 

XXIX. Eloquence of the Pulpit,. 312 

XXX. Critical Examination of a Sermon of Bishop Atterbury’s,.326 

XXXI. Conduct of a Discourse in all its Parts—Introduction—Division—Nar¬ 
ration, and Explication,.341 


XXXII. Conduct of a Discourse—The Argumentative Part—The Pathetic Part 

—The Peroration,....353 

XXXIII. Pronunciation or Delivery,...* •.^65 

A 


































VI 


CONTENTS. 


XXXIV. Means of improving in Eloquence,...877 

XXXV. Comparative Merit of the Ancients and the Moderns—Historical Writ¬ 
ing,. 387 

XXXVI. Historical Writing,. 398 

XXXVII. Philosophical Writing—Dialogue—Epistolary Writing—Fictitious 

History,. 410 

XXXVIII. Nature of Poetry—Its Origin and Progress—Versification,. 423 

XXXIX. Pastoral Poetry—Lyric Poetry,. 433 

XL. Didactic Poetry—Descriptive Poetry,.. 447 

XLI. The Poetry of the Hebrews,.459 

XLII. Epic Poetry,..471 

XLIII. Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey—Virgil’s iEneid,.481 

XLIV. Lucan’s Pharsalia—Tasso’s Jerusalem—Camogn’s Lusiad—Fenelon’s 

Telemachus—Voltaire’s Ilenriade—Milton’s Paradise Lost,.493 

XLV. Dramatic Poetry—Tragedy,. 506 

XLVI. Tragedy—Greek, French, English Tragedy,.519 

XLVII. Comedy—Greek and Roman-—French—English Comedy,.533 
















THE 


LIFE OF DR. HUGH BLAIR. 


Dr HUGH BLAIR was born in Edinburgh on the 7th of April, 1718. He wa» de¬ 
scended from the ancient and respectable family of Blair, in Ayrshire. His great 
grandfather, Mr. Robert Blair, minister of St. Andrews, and chaplain to Charles I. 
was distinguished by his firm attachment to the cause of freedom, and his zealous sup¬ 
port of the Presbyterian form of church government, in the time of the civil wars. The 
talents of this worthy man seem to have descended as an inheritance to his posterity. 
Of the two sons who survived him, David, the eldest, was one of the Ministers of the 
Old Church in Edinburgh, and father of Mr, Robert Blair, minister of Athelstaneford, 
the celebrated author of the poem, entitled “The Gravk,” and grandfather of Lord 
President Blair, distinguished by his masculine eloquence, profound knowledge of law, 
and hereditary love of Literature. From his youngest son Hugh, sprung Mr. John 
Blair, who was a respectable merchant, and one of the Magistrates of Edinburgh. He 
married Martha Ogston; and the first child of this marriage was the excellent person 
who is the subject of this narrative 

In consequence of some misfortunes in trade, his father retired from mercantile 
business, and obtained an office in the excise; yet his fortune was not so much impaired 
as to prevent him from giving his son a liberal education. 

From his earliest youth his views were turned towards the clerical profession, and 
his education received a suitabie direction. After going through the usual gramma¬ 
tical course at the High-school, he entered the Humanity class, in the University of 
Edinburgh, in October, 1730, and spent eleven years in that celebrated seminary in 
the study of literature, philosophy, and divinity. In all the classes he was distinguish¬ 
ed among his companions, both for diligence and proficiency; but in the Logic class 
he attained particular distinction, by an Essay On the Beautiful; which had the good 
fortune to attract the notice of Professor Stevenson, and was appointed to be read 
publicly at the end of the session, with the most flattering marks of the Professor’s 
approbation. This mark of distinction made a deep impression on his mind, and de¬ 
termined the bent of his genius towards polite literature. 

At this time he formed a plan of study, which contributed much to the accuracy and 
extent of his knowledge. It consisted in making abstracts of the most important works 
which he read, and in digesting them according to the train of his own thoughts. His¬ 
tory, in particular, he resolved to study in this manner, and constructed a very com¬ 
prehensive scheme of chronological tables for receiving into its proper place every 
important fact that should occur. This scheme has been given to the world in a more 
extensive and correct form by his learned friend Dr. John Blair, Prebendary of West¬ 
minster, in his “ Chronology and History of the World.” 

In 1739, he took the degree of Master of Arts; and on that occasion, printed and 
defended a thesis, De fundamentis et obligations Legis Natures, which exhibits an out¬ 
line of the moral principles by which the world was afterward to profit in his Sermons. 

At this period he was engaged as a tutor in the family of Lord Lovat, and spent one 
summer in the north country, attending his Lordship’s eldest son, afterward General 
Fraser. When his pupil was appointed to the command of the 71st Regiment, he tes¬ 
tified his respect for his old tutor, by making him chaplain to one of its battalions. 

On the completion of his academical course, he was licensed to preach the Gospel 
bv the Presbytery of Edinburgh, on the 2ist of October, 1741. His first appearances 
in the pulpit fullv justified the expectations of his friends, and, in a few months, the 
fame of his eloquence procured for him a presentation to the church of Collessie, in 
Fifeshire, where he was ordained minister on the 23d September, 1742. 

He was not permitted to remain long in the obscurity of a country parish. In con¬ 
sequence of a vacancy in the second charge of the Cannongate of Edinburgh, which 
was to be supplied by popular election, his friends were enabled to recall him to a sta- 



viii 


THE LIFE OF 


tion more suited to ills talents. Though Mr. Robert Walker, a popular and eloquent 
preacher, was his competitor, he obtained a majority of votes, and was admitted on 
the 14th of July, 1743. In this station he continued eleven years, assiduously devoted 
to the attainment of professional excellence, and the regular discharge of his parochial 
duties. 

in 1748, he married his cousin, Catharine Bannatyne, daughter of the Rev. James 
Baunatyne, one of the ministers of Edinburgh ; a woman distinguished for the strength 
of her understanding, and the prudence of her conduct. In consequence of a call fioin 
the Town Council of Edinburgh, he was translated from the Cannongate to Lady Yes- 
ter’s church, in the city, on the 11th of October, 1745; and from thence to the first 
charge in the High Church, on the 15th of June, 1758, the most respectable clerical 
situation in the kingdom. The uniform prudence, ability, and success, which for a 
period of more than fifty years, accompanied all his ministerial labours in that conspi¬ 
cuous and ditlicult charge, sufficiently evince the wisdom of their choice. His dis¬ 
courses from the pulpit were composed with uncommon care, and attracted univer¬ 
sal admiration. 

In June, 1757, the University of St. Andrews showed its discernment by conferring 
on him the degree of Doctor in Divinity; an academical honour which at that time was 
very rare in Scotland. 

His fame as a preacher was by this time established, but no production of his pen 
had yet been given to the world except two Sermons, preached on particular occa¬ 
sions, some translations, in verse, of passages of Scripture for the Psalmody of the 
church, and the article on Dr. Hutcheson’s “System of Moral Philosophy,” in the 
“Edinburgh Review;” a periodical work begun in 1755 Of this paper two numbers 
only appeared, in which his learned friends Dr. Adam Smith, Dr. Robertson, and Mr. 
Wedderburn, afterwards Earl of Roslin, had a principal share. 

At an early period of his life, while he, and his cousin Mr. George Bannatyne, were 
students in Divinity, they wrote a poem entitled The Resurrection , copies of which 
were handed about in manuscript. No one appearing to claim the performance, an 
edition of it was published in 1749, in folio, to which the name William Douglas, M. D. 
was appended as the author. 

Besides the compositions above mentioned, he was by some supposed to have repelled 
an attack on his friend Lord Kaimes, by Mr. George Anderson, in his “ Analysis of the 
Essays on Morality,” &.c. in a pamphlet entitled Observations on the Analysis, &.C. 
8vo. 1755, and was believed likewise to have lent his aid in a formal reply made by 
Lord Kaimes himself, under the title of Observations against the Essays on Morality 
and Natural Religion, examined , 8vo. 1756* 

Having now found sufficient leisure, from the laborious duties of his profession, to 
turn his attention to general literature, he began seriously to think on a plan for teach¬ 
ing to others that art which had contributed so much to the establishment of his own 
tame. Encouraged by the success of his predecessors, Dr. Smith, and Dr. Watson, 
aud the advice of his friend Lord Kaimes, he prepared with this view, a course of 
Lectures on Composition, and having obtained the approbation of the University, he 
began to read them in the College on the 11th of December, 1759. To this under¬ 
taking he brought all the qualifications requisite for executing it well; and along with 
them a weight of reputation which could not fail to give effect to the lessons he should 
teach. Accordingly, his first course of Lectures was well attended, and received with 
great applause. 

In August, 1760, the Town Council of Edinburgh instituted a Rhetorical class in the 
University under his direction, as an addition to the system of academical education. 
And, in April, 1762, on a representation to his Majesty, setting forth the advantages 
of the institution, as a branch of academical education, the King, “ in consideration of 
his approved qualifications,” erected and endowed his establishment in the University, 
by appointing him the first Regius Professor of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres, with a sa¬ 
lary of £70. 

In 1760, he was made the instrument of introducing into the world, “Fragments 
of Ancient Poetry, collected in the Highlands of Scotland, and translated from the 
Gaelic or Erse language,” 12mo. to which he prefixed a Preface. These “Fragments” 
were communicated by Mr. Macpherson, and followed in the same year, by “ Fingal” 
and “Temora,” published by him as translations of complete and regular epic poems, 
the production of Ossian, a Highland bard, of remote antiquity. Being himself per¬ 
suaded of their being completely genuine, he published in 1762, A Critical Dissertation 
on the Poems of Ossian, &lc. 4to. in proof of their antiquity, and illustrative of their 
beauties, which spread the reputation of its author throughout Europe. Of those who 


Lord Woodhouselee’s Life of Lord Kaimes, Vol. I. p. 142. 



DR. BLAIR. 


IX 


attended to the subject, a greater number were disposed to agree with him as to the 
beauty of the Poems, than as to their authenticity. At the head of this set of critics 
was Dr. Johnson, who in his “Journey to the Western Islands,” strenuously maintained 
their being altogether a forgery. Mr. Macpherson, the pretended translator, carefully 
reserved his latent claims to the rank and merit of an original poet, and did not con¬ 
ceal from those with whom he was particularly intimate, that the poems were entirely 
his own composition.* 

In 1773, it fell to bis share to form the first uniform edition of the Works of the Bri¬ 
tish Poets , which appeared in these kingdoms, printed at Edinburgh, in 42 vols. 12mo. 
for Messrs. Creech and Belfour. The elegance of this edition is no compensation for 
its incompleteness; the contracted list of authors, marked out by the editor, including 
none of those who have been denominated our older classics, except Milton and Cowley. 
His industry and taste were also exercised, about this time, in superintending an edi¬ 
tion of the Works of Shakspeare , printed at Edinburgh, by Martin and Wotherspoon, 
in 10 vols. 12mo. 

Though his productions for the pulpit had long furnished instruction and delight to 
his own congregation, yet it was not till the year 1777 that he gave to the w’orld the 
first volume of his Sermons , which was printed at London in 8vo. for Messrs. Strahan 
and Cadell, London, and had a very extensive sale. 

It is remarkable, that w hen lie transmitted his manuscript to Mr. Strahan the printer, 
after keeping it by him for some time, he wrote a letter to him, declining the publica¬ 
tion. Having, however, sent one of the sermons to Dr. Johnson, for the sake of his 
opinion, he received from him, after the unfavourable letter was despatched, the fol¬ 
lowing note: 

“ I have read over Dr. Blair’s first Sermon with more than approbation; to say it 
is good, it is to say too little. It is excellently written, both as to doctrine and lan¬ 
guage.”! 

Soon after, Mr. Strahan had a conversation with Dr. Johnson concerning the pub¬ 
lication, and very candidly wrote again to Dr Blair, enclosing Dr. Johnson’s note, and 
agreeing to purchase the volume for one hundred pounds. 

This volume of discourses was followed, at different intervals, by three other volumes, 
each succeeding volume increasing the sale of the former volumes. One hundred 
pounds were given for the first volume, which, in consequence of the extensive sale, 
the proprietors doubled. They gave him £300 for the second, and £600 for each of 
the third and fourth volumes. 

These discourses experienced a success unparalleled in the annals of pulpit elo¬ 
quence. They circulated rapidly and widely wherever the English tongue extends, 
were soon translated into almost all the languages of Europe, and were judged worthy 
of a public reward by his Majesty, who, in the year 1780, was graciously pleased to 
grant the author a pension of £200,which continued till his death. It is said, that 
they were read to the Royal family by the Earl of Mansfield, and that her Majesty 
honoured them with her approbation, and took an active part in procuring him this 
proof of the Royal favour. 

Hitherto, the writers of sermons, among the Scottish preachers, had produced no 
models of a refined and polished eloquence. Their discourses abounded in cold divi¬ 
sions, metaphysical discussion, or loose and incoherent declamation. Among his con¬ 
temporaries, some preachers had distinguished themselves by the good sense, sound 
reasoning, and manly simplicity of their pulpit compositions. “ But the polish of Dr. 
Blair, which gave elegance to sentiments not too profound for common comprehension, 
nor too obvious to be uninteresting, was wanting to render this species of composition 
popular, and generally pleasing. By employing the utmost exertions of a vigorous 
mind, and of patient study, to select the best ideas, and to prune off every superfluous 
thought, by taking pains to embellish them by all the beauties of language and elegant 
expression, and by lepeatedlv examining with the severity of an enlightened critic, 
every sentence, and erasing every harsh and uncouth phrase, he has produced the most 
elegant models of pulpit composition that have yet appeared in these kingdoms.”! 

In the enjoyment of the praise of polished eloquence, there are other men who par¬ 
ticipate with Dr Blair; but in the application of talents and of learning, to render 
mankind wiser or better, there are few literary characters who can claim an equal 
share; and, though the highest praise is due to his compositions for the pulpit, con¬ 
sidered as the productions of genius and of taste, yet, when they are regarded in this 
more important light, they entitle him to that still more honourable fame, which is the 
portion of the wise and good alone, and before which all literary splendour disappears. 


* Anderson’s Life of Johnson, 3d edition, p. 342. 
t Boswell’s Life of Johnson, Vol. III. p. 100. 

+ Anderson’s Life of Lcgan; W orks of the British Poets, Vol. XI. p. 1032. 





X 


THE LIFE OF 


After reading his course of Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres in the Univer¬ 
sity above twenty years, he retired from the discharge of his academical duties in 1783. 
His academical prelections constitute an era in the history of the progress of taste and 
elegance in Scotland. His classical taste, his aversion from refinement and skepti¬ 
cism, his good intentions, his respect for received opinions, his industry, and his expe¬ 
rience in the art of teaching, enabled him to present to young men, aiming at literary 
composition, a most judicious, elegant, and comprehensive system of rules for forming 
their style, and cultivating their taste* * 

The same year, he published his Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres , in 2 vols. 
4to. which brought him a considerable accession of emolument and fame. They have 
been frequently reprinted in 3 vols. 8vo. and deservedly occupy a place in our schools 
and universities, as an excellent elementary treatise on the studies of composition and 
eloquence. They contain an accurate analysis of the principles of literary composi¬ 
tion, in all the various species of writing; a happy illustration of those principles by 
the most beautiful and apposite examples, drawn from the best authors, both ancient 
and modern, and an admirable digest of the rules of elocution, as applicable to the 
oratory of the pulpit, the bar, and the popular assembly. They do not aim at being 
purely original ; for this would have been to circumscribe their utility ; neither in 
point of style are they polished with the same degree of care as his Sermons : yet, so 
useful is the object of these Lectures , so comprehensive their plan, and such the ex¬ 
cellence of the matter they contain, that, if not the most splendid, they will perhaps 
prove the most durable monument of his reputation. 

From this period his talents w ere consecrated solely to the instruction of his congre¬ 
gation, and the private and unseen labours of his office ; preparing for the world the 
blessings of elegant instruction, and tendering to the mourner the lessons of divine 
consolation. From that part of his professional duty, which regarded the government 
of the church, he was prevented by his timidity and diffidence in his abilities, from 
taking any active part; but he was steadily attached to the cause of moderation, and 
his opinion was eagerly courted by Dr. Robertson, Dr. Drysdale, Dr. Hill, Dr. Finlay- 
son, and others, who managed ecclesiastical business. The outline of the pastoral 
admonition, which the General Assembly, in 1799, addressed to the people under their 
charge, proceeded from his pen. 

In the course of his life he had frequently visited London, and had been introduced 
to the acquaintance of Dr. Johnson, Dr. Percy, afterward Bishop of Dromore, and 
other distinguished literary characters in England. On the recommendation of Dr. 
Percy, the Duke and Duchess of Northumberland committed to him the care of their 
second son, Lord Algernon Percy, afterward Earl of Beverley, when he prosecuted 
his studies at the University of Edinburgh. Among his countrymen, Lord Kaimes, 
David Hume, Dr. Smith, Dr. Robertson, Dr. Ferguson, Mr. John Home, and Dr. 
Carlyle, were the persons with whom he lived in habits of intimacy, and with whom, 
during the greater part of his life, he maintained social intercourse. 

Upon the death of Dr. Robertson, Principal of the University of Edinburgh, in the 
year 1793, the unanimous voice of the country acknowledged his claim to be appointed 
the successor of that illustrious man. When the Magistrates and Council of Edinburgh 
gave the appointment to another, it is certain that he felt the oversight as injurious to 
his pretensions. Flattered with the respect of the world, and unaccustomed to disap¬ 
pointments during a long life, that had been devoted to literary pursuits, he could ill 
brook anv neglect, when that life was drawing to a close. 

In the year 1795, he suffered a heavy domestic calamity by the death of Mrs. Blair, 
who had shared, with the tenderest affection, in all his fortunes, and contributed near 
half a century to his happiness and comfort. By her he had a son, who died in infan¬ 
cy, and a daughter, of a most amiable disposition, and elegant accomplishments, who 
died at the age of twenty. 

For some years he had felt himself unequal to the fatigue of instructing his congre¬ 
gation from the pulpit, yet he continued to the end of his life in the active and cheerful 
discharge of all his other official duties. At the solicitation of his friends, he preached 
the annual Sermon for the benefit of the Sons of the Clergy of Scotland in 1797, which 
produced a liberal collection, and closed the labours of the pulpit. 

Though his bodily constitution was not robust, yet he enjoyed a general state of 
good health, and, through habitual cheerfulness, temperance, and ease, survived the 
usual term of human life. During the summer before his death, he was employed in 
preparing the last volume of his Sermons for the press, and evinced his usual vigour of 
understanding, and capacity of exertion. A few days before he died he had no com¬ 
plaint; but on the 24th of December, 1800, he felt a pain in his bowels, which was 
not then suspected to proceed from an inguinal hernia, which he considered as trifling - . 
On the afternoon of the 2oth, the pain increased, and the symptoms became violent 



DR. BLAIR. 


li 


and alarming. In consequence of an incarceration of the hernia, it produced a com¬ 
plete stoppage in the bowels, and an inflammation commenced, which it was impossible 
to resist. Retaining to the last moment the full possession of his mental faculties, he 
expired on the morning of the 27th, with the composure and hope of a Christian pastoi, 
in the 83d year of his age, and the 59th of iiis ministry. 

He bequeathed his house in Argyle-Square, which had been his residence above 
thirty years, and his personal property, which was considerable, to his relation, Mr. 
Richard Bannatyne, merchant in Edinburgh, with an explicit injunction, suggested by 
an excusable solicitude for his reputation, that all his manuscript sermons and letters 
should be destroyed. 

The Sermons which he had transcribed, and, in many parts, re-composed for the 
press, after he had completed his eighty-second year, were delivered to the publishers 
about six weeks before his death, and printed in 1801, with a short account of his life, 
written by his friend and colleague, Dr. Einlayson; who himself now needs a similar 
memorial of his talents and virtues. He had himself paid a similar tribute to the 
memory of his colleague Mr. Robert Walker, by prefixing a candid and affectionate 
Preface to the iast volume of his Sermons. A more ample and elaborate account of 
his life and writings, drawn up at his request, bv Dr. John Hill, Professor of Humanity 
in the University of Edinburgh, was printed in 1807, when the writer himself was be¬ 
yond the teach of praise or censure. 

The name of Dr. Blair needs no panegyric. His literary honours are a trophy 
which he has erected for himself, and which time will not destroy. Posterity will 
justly regard him as a benefactor of the human race, and as no ordinary instrument, in 
the hand of God, for refining the taste, improving the morality, and promoting the 
religion of the Christian world. 



LECTURE I 


INTRODUCTION. 


One of the most distinguished privileges which Providence has 
conferred upon mankind, is the power of communicating their 
thoughts to one another. Destitute of this power, reason would be 
a solitary, and, in some measure, an unavailable principle. Speech 
is the great instrument by which man becomes beneficial to man: 
and it is to the intercourse and transmission of thought, by means of 
speech, that we are chiefly indebted for the improvement of thought 
itself. Small are the advances which a single unassisted individual 
can make towards perfecting any of his powers. What we call 
human reason, is not the effort or ability of one, so much as it is 
the result of the reason of many, arising from lights mutually com¬ 
municated, in consequence of discourse and writing. 

It is obvious, then, that writing and discourse are objects entitled 
to the highest attention. Whether the influence of the speaker, or 
the entertainment of the hearer, be consulted; whether utility or 
pleasure be the principal aim in view, we are prompted, by the 
strongest motives, to study how we may communicate our thoughts 
to one another with most advantage. Accordingly we find, that in 
almost every nation, as soon as language had extended itself beyond 
that scanty communication which was requisite for the supply of 
men’s necessities, the improvement of discourse began to attract 
regard. In the language even of rude uncultivated tribes, we can 
trace some attention to the grace and force of those expressions 
which they used, when they sought to persuade or to affect. They 
were early sensible of a beauty in discourse, and endeavoured to 
give it certain decorations, which experience had taught them it 
was capable of receiving, long before the study of those decora¬ 
tions was formed into a regular art. 

But, among nations in a civilized state, no art has been cultivated 
with more care, than that of language, style, and composition. The 
attention paid to it may, indeed, be assumed as one mark of the 
progress of society towards its most improved period. For, accord¬ 
ing as society improves and flourishes, men acquire more influence 
over one another by means of reasoning and discourse; and in pro¬ 
portion as that influence is felt to enlarge, it must follow, as a natu¬ 
ral consequence, that they will bestow more care upon the methods 
B 2 


10 


INTRODUCTION. 


[lect. 1. 


of expressing their conceptions with propriety and eloquence. 
Hence we find, that in all the polished nations of Europe, this study 
has been treated as highly important, and has possessed a consider¬ 
able place in every plan of liberal education. 

Indeed, when the arts of speech and writing are mentioned, I 
am sensible that prejudices against them are apt to rise in the 
minds of many. A sort of art is immediately thought of, that is 
ostentatious and deceitful; the minute and trifling study of words 
alone; the pomp of expression; the studied fallacies of rhetoric; 
ornament substituted in the room of use. We need not wonder, 
that, under such imputations, all study of discourse as an art, 
should have suffered in the opinion of men of understanding ; and 
I am far from denying, that rhetoric and criticism have sometimes 
been so managed as to tend to the corruption, rather than to the 
improvement, of good taste and true eloquence. But sure it is 
equally possible to apply the principles of reason and good sense to 
this art, as to any other that is cultivated among men. If the fol¬ 
lowing Lectures have any merit, it will consist in an endeavour to 
substitute the application of these principles in the place of artificial 
and scholastic rhetoric; in an endeavour to explode false orna¬ 
ment, to direct attention more towards substance than show, to re¬ 
commend good sense as the foundation of all good composition, 
and simplicity as essential to all true ornament. 

When entering on this subject, I may be allowed, on this occa¬ 
sion, to suggest a few thoughts concerning the importance and ad¬ 
vantages of such studies, and the rank they are entitled to possess 
in academical education.* I am under no temptation, for this pur¬ 
pose, of extolling their importance at the expense of any other de¬ 
partment of science. On the contrary, the study of Rhetoric and 
Belles Lettres supposes and requires a proper acquaintance with 
the rest of the liberal arts. It embraces them all within its circle, 
and recommends them to the highest regard. The first care of all 
such as wish either to write with reputation, or to speak in public 
so as to command attention, must be, to extend their knowledge; 
to lay in a rich store of ideas relating to those subjects of which the 
occasions of life may call them to discourse or to write. Hence, 
among the ancients, it was a fundamental principle, and frequently 
inculcated, “ Quod omnibus disciplinis et artibus debet esse instruc¬ 
ts orator;” that the orator ought to be an accomplished scholar, and 
conversant in every part of learning. It is indeed impossible to con¬ 
trive an art, and very pernicious it were if it could be contrived, which 
should give the stamp of merit to any composition rich or splendid 
in expression, but barren or erroneous in thought. They are the 
wretched attempts towards an art of this kind, which have so often 

* The author was the first who read lectures on this subject in the university of 
Edinburgh. He began with reading them in a private character in the year 1759. In 
the following year he was chosen Professor of Rhetoric by the magistrates and 
town-council of Edinburgh ; and, in 1762, his Majesty was pleased to erect and 
endow a Profession of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres in that university, and the author 
was appointed the first Regius Professor. 



LECT. I.] 


INTRODUCTION. 


II 


disgraced oratory, and debased it below its true standard. The 
graces of composition have been employed to disguise or to supply 
the want of matter; and the temporary applause of the ignorant 
has been courted, instead of the lasting approbation of the discern¬ 
ing. But such imposture can never maintain its ground long. 
Knowledge and science must furnish the materials that form the 
body and substance of any valuable composition. Rhetoric serves 
to add the polish; and we know that none but firm and solid bodies 
can be polished well. 

Of those who peruse the following Lectures, some by the pro¬ 
fession to which they addict themselves, or in consequence of their 
prevailing inclination, may have the view of being employed in com¬ 
position, or in public speaking. Others, without any prospect of 
this kind, may wish only to improve their taste with respect to wri¬ 
ting and discourse, and to acquire principles which will enable them 
to judge for themselves in that part of literature called the Belles 
Lettres. 

With respect to the former, such as may have occasion to commu¬ 
nicate their sentiments to the public, it is abundantly clear that some 
preparation of study is requisite for the end which they have in 
view. To speak or to write perspicuously and agreeably with puri¬ 
ty, with grace and strength, are attainments of the utmost conse¬ 
quence to all who purpose, either by speech or writing, to address 
the public. For without being master of those attainments, no man 
can do justice to his own conceptions; but how rich soever he may 
be in knowledge and in good sense, will be able to avail himself less 
of those treasures, than such as possess not half his store, but who 
can display what they possess with more propriety. Neither are 
these attainments of that kind for which we are indebted to nature 
merely. Nature has, indeed, conferred upon some a very favour¬ 
able distinction in this respect, beyond others. But in these, as in 
most other talents she bestows, she has left much to be wrought out 
by every man’s own industry. So conspicuous have been the effects 
of study and improvement in every part of eloquence ; such remark¬ 
able examples have appeared of persons surmounting, by their dili¬ 
gence, the disadvantages of the most untoward nature, that among 
the learned it has long been a contested, and remains still an unde¬ 
cided point, whether nature or art confer most towards excelling 
in writing or discourse. 

With respect to the manner in which art can most effectually fur¬ 
nish assistance for such a purpose, there may be diversity of opinions. 
I by no means pretend to say that mere rhetorical rules, ho,w just 
soever, are sufficient to form an orator. Supposing natural genius to 
be favourable, more by a great deal will depend upon private ap¬ 
plication and study, than upon any system of instruction that is ca¬ 
pable of being publicly communicated. But at the same time, 
though rules and instructions cannot do all that is requisite, they may, 
however, do much that is of real use. They cannot, it is true, in¬ 
spire genius; but they can direct and assist it. They cannot remedy 
barrenness; but they may correct redundancy. They point out pro- 


INTRODUCTION. 


[lect. I* 


U 

per models for imitation. They bring into view the chief beauties 
that ought to be studied, and the principal thoughts that ought to be 
avoided; and thereby tend to enlighten taste, and to lead genius 
from unnatural deviations, into its proper channel. What would not 
avail for the production of great excellencies, may at least serve to 
prevent the commission of considerable errors. 

All that regards the study of eloquence and composition, merits 
the higher attention upon this account, that it is intimately connect¬ 
ed with the improvement of our intellectual powers. For I must 
be allowed to say, that when we are employed, after a proper man¬ 
ner, in the study of composition, we are cultivating reason itself. 
True rhetoric and sound logic are very nearly allied. The study of 
arranging and expressing our thoughts with propriety, teaches to 
think as well as to speak accurately. By putting our sentiments into 
words, we always conceive them more distinctly. Every one who 
has the slightest acquaintance with composition knows, that when he 
expresses himself ill on any subject, when his arrangement is loose, 
and his sentences become feeble, the defects of his style can, al¬ 
most on every occasion, be traced back to his indistinct conception 
of the subject: so close is the connexion between thoughts and the 
words in which they are clothed. 

The study of composition, important in itself at all times, has ac¬ 
quired additional importance from the taste and manners of the 
present age. It is an age wherein improvements in every part of 
science, have been prosecuted with ardour. To all the liberal arts 
much attention has been paid; and to none more than to the beauty 
of language, and the grace and elegance of every kind of writing. 
The public ear is become refined. It will not easily bear what is 
slovenly and incorrect. Every author must aspire to some merit 
in expression, as well as in sentiment, if he would not incur the 
danger of being neglected and despised. 

I will not deny that the love of minute elegance, and attention to 
inferior ornaments of composition, may at present have engrossed 
too great a degree of the public regard. It is indeed my opinion, 
that we lean to this extreme; often more careful of polishing style, 
than of storing it with thought. Yet hence arises a new reason for 
the study of just and proper composition. If it be requisite not to 
be deficient in elegance or ornament in times when they are in such 
high estimation, it is still more requisite to attain the power of 
distinguishing false ornament from true, in order to prevent our being 
carried away by that torrent of false and frivolous taste, which never 
fails, when it is prevalent, to sweep along with it the raw and the ig¬ 
norant. They who have never studied eloquence in its principles, 
nor have been trained to attend to the genuine and manly beauties of 
good writing, are always ready to be caught by the mere glare of 
language; and when they come to speak in public, or to compose, 
have no other standard on which to form themselves, except what 
chances to be fashionable and popular, how corrupted soever, or er¬ 
roneous, that may be. 

But as there are many who have no such objects as either com- 


LECT. I.] 


INTRODUCTION. 


13 


position or public speaking in view, let us next consider what advan¬ 
tages may be derived by them, from such studies as form the subject 
of these lectures. To them, rhetoric is not so much a practical 
art as a speculative science; and the same instructions which assist 
others in composing, will assist them in discerning and relishing 
the beauties of composition. Whatever enables genius to execute 
well, will enable taste to criticise justly. 

When we name criticising, prejudices may perhaps arise, of the 
same kind with those which I mentioned before with respect to rhe¬ 
toric. As rhetoric has been sometimes thought to signify nothing 
more than the scholastic study of words, and phrases, and tropes, so 
criticism has been considered as merely the art of finding faults; 
as the frigid application of certain technical terms, by means of 
which persons are taught to cavil and censure in a learned manner. 
"But this is the criticism of pedants only. True criticism is a liberal 
and humane art. It is the offspring of good sense and refined taste. 
It aims at acquiring a just discernment of the real merit of authors. 
It promotes a lively relish of their beauties, while it preserves us 
from that blind and implicit veneration which would confound their 
beauties and faults in our esteem. It teaches us, in a word, to ad¬ 
mire and to blame with judgment, and not to follow the crowd 
blindly. 

In an age when works of genius and literature are so frequently 
the subjects of discourse, when every one erects himself into a judge, 
and when we can hardly mingle in polite society without bearing 
some share in such discussions; studies of this kind, it is not to be 
doubted, will appear to derive part of their importance from the use 
to which they may be applied in furnishing materials for those fash¬ 
ionable topics of discourse, and thereby enabling us to support a 
proper rank in social life. 

But I should be sorry if we could not rest the merit of such stu¬ 
dies on somewhatof solid and intrinsical use, independent of appear¬ 
ance and show. The exercise of taste and of sound criticism is, in 
truth, one of the most improving employments of the understanding. 
To apply the principles of good sense to composition and discourse: 
to examine what is beautiful and why it is so; to employ ourselves 
in distinguishing accurately between the specious and the solid, be¬ 
tween affected and natural ornament, must certainly improve us not 
a little in the most valuable part of all philosophy, the philosophy 
of human nature. For such disquisitions are very intimately con¬ 
nected with the knowledge of ourselves. They necessarily lead us 
to reflect on the operations of the imagination, and the movements 
of the heart; and increase our acquaintance with some of the most 
refined feelings which belong to our frame. 

Logical and ethical disquisitions move in a higher sphere; and 
are conversant with objects of a more severe kind; the progress of 
the understanding in its search after knowledge, and the direction 
of the will in the proper pursuit of good. They point out to 
man the improvement of his nature as an intelligent being; and his 
duties as the subject of moral obligation. Belles Lettres and criti- 


14 


INTRODUCTION. 


[lect. r. 


cism chiefly consider him as a being endowed with those powers of 
taste and imagination, which were intended to embellish his mind, 
and to supply him with rational and useful entertainment. They 
open afield of investigation peculiar to themselves. All that relates 
to beauty, harmony, grandeur, and elegance; all that can^sooth the 
mind, gratify the fancy, or move the affections, belongs to their pro¬ 
vince. They present human nature under a different aspect from that 
which it assumes when viewed by other sciences. They bring to 
light various springs of action, which, without their aid, might have 
passed unobserved; and which, though of a delicate nature, fre¬ 
quently exert a powerful influence on several departments of human 
life. 

Such studies have also this peculiar advantage, that they exercise 
our reason without fatiguing it. They lead to inquiries acute, but 
not painful; profound, but not dry nor abstruse. They strew flowers 
in the path of science; and while they keep the mind bent, in some 
degree, and active, they relieve it at the same time from that more 
toilsome labour to which it must submit in the acquisition of neces¬ 
sary erudition, or the investigation of abstract truth. 

The cultivation of taste is farther recommended by the happy ef¬ 
fects which it naturally tends to produce on human life. The most 
busy man, in the most active sphere, cannot be always occupied by 
business. Men of serious professions cannot always be on the stretch 
of serious thought. Neither can the most gay and flourishing situa¬ 
tions of fortune afford any man the power of filling all his hours with 
pleasure. Life must always languish in the hands of the idle. It 
will frequently languish even in the hands of the busy, if they have not 
some employments subsidiary to that which forms their main pursuit. 
How then shall these vacant spaces, those unemployed intervals, 
which more or less, occur in the life of every one, be filled up? 
How can we contrive to dispose of them in any way that shall be 
more agreeable in itself, or more consonant to the dignity of the 
human mind, than in the entertainments of taste, and the study of 
polite literature? He who is so happy as to have acquired a relish 
for these, has always at hand an innocent and irreproachable amuse¬ 
ment for his leisure hours, to save him from the danger of many a 
pernicious passion. He is not in hazard of being a burden to him¬ 
self. He is not obliged to fly to low company, or to court the riot of 
loose pleasures, in order to cure the tediousness of existence. 

Providence seems plainly to have pointed out this useful purpose 
to which the pleasures of taste may be applied, by interposing them 
in a middle station between the pleasures of sense, and those of pure 
intellect. We were not designed to grovel always among objects so 
low as the former; nor are we capable of dwelling constantly in so 
high a region as the latter. The pleasures of taste refresh the 
mind after the toils of the intellect, and the labours of abstract 
study; and they gradually raise it above the attachments of sense, 
and prepare it for the enjoyments of virtue. 

So consonant is this to experience, that in the education of youth, 
no object has in every age appeared more important to wise men, 


LECT. I.] 


INTRODUCTION. 


15 


than to tincture them early with a relish for the entertainments of 
taste. The transition is commonly made with ease from these to 
the discharge of the higher and more important duties of life. 
Good hopes may be entertained of those whose minds have this libe¬ 
ral and elegant turn. It is favourable to many virtues. Where¬ 
as to be entirely devoid of relish for eloquence, poetry, or any of 
the fine arts, is justly construed to be an unpromising symptom of 
youth; and raises suspicions of their being prone to low gratifica¬ 
tions, or destined to drudge in the more vulgar and illiberal pursuits 
of life. 

There are indeed few good dispositions of any kind with which 
the improvement of taste is not more or less connected. A culti¬ 
vated taste increases sensibility to all the tender and humane pas¬ 
sions, by giving them frequent exercise; while it tends to weaken 
the more violent and fierce emotions. 

•-Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes- 

Emollit mores, nec sinit esse feros.* 

The elevated sentiments and high examples which poetry, elo¬ 
quence, and history, are often bringing under our view, naturally tend 
to nourish in our minds public spirit, the love of glory, contempt of 
external fortune, and the admiration of what is truly illustrious and 
great. 

I will not go so far as to say that the improvement of taste and of 
virtue is the same; or that they may always be expected to co-exist 
in an equal degree. More powerful correctives than taste can apply, 
are necessary for reforming the corrupt propensities which too fre¬ 
quently prevail among mankind. Elegant speculations are some¬ 
times found to float on the surface of the mind, while bad passions 
possess the interior regions of the heart. At the same time this 
cannot but be admitted, that the exercise of taste is, in its native 
tendency, moral and purifying. From reading the most admired 
productions of genius, whether in poetry or prose, almost every one 
rises with some good impressions left on his mind; and though these 
may not always be durable, they are at least to be ranked among 
the means of disposing the heart to virtue. One thing is certain, 
and I shall hereafter have occasion to illustrate it more fully, that, 
without possessing the virtuous affections in a strong degree, no man 
can attain eminence in the sublime parts of eloquence. He must 
feel what a good man feels, if he expects greatly to move, or to in¬ 
terest mankind. They are the ardent sentiments of honour, vir¬ 
tue, magnanimity, and public spirit, that only can kindle that fire of 
genius, and call up into the mind those high ideas, which attract the 
admiration of ages; and if this spirit be necessary to produce the 
most distinguished efforts of eloquence, it must be necessary also to 
our relishing them with proper taste and feeling. 

On these general topics I shall dwell no longer; but proceed di¬ 
rectly to the consideration of the subjects which are to employ the 


* These polish’d arts have humaniz’d mankind, 
Soften’d the rude, and calm’d the boist’rous mind. 




16 


INTRODUCTION. 


[lect. II. 


following Lectures. They divide themselves into five parts. First, 
some introductory dissertations on the nature of taste, and upon the 
sources of its pleasures. Secondly, the consideration of language: 
Thirdly, of style: Fourthly of eloquence, properly so called, or 
public speaking in its different kinds. Lastly, a critical examination 
of the most distinguished species of composition, both in prose and 
verse. 


LECTURE II. 


TASTE. 

The nature of the present undertaking leads me to begin with 
some inquiries concerning taste, as it is this faculty which is always 
appealed to, in disquisitions concerning the merit of discourse in 
writing. 

There are few subjects on which men talk more loosely and indis¬ 
tinctly than on taste; few which it is more difficult to explain with 
precision; and none which in this course of Lectures will appear 
more dry or abstract. What I have to say on the subject, shall be 
in the following order. I shall first explain the Nature of Taste as a 
power or faculty in the human mind. I shall next consider, how far 
it is an improveable faculty. I shall show the sources of its im¬ 
provement, and the characters of taste in its most perfect state. I 
shall then examine the various fluctuations to which it is liable, and 
inquire whether there be any standard to which we can bring the 
different tastes of men, in order to distinguish the corrupted from 
the true. 

Taste may be defined “The power of receiving pleasure from 
the beauties of nature and of art.” The first question that occurs 
concerning it is, whether it is to be considered as an internal sense, 
or as an exertion of reason ? Reason is a very general term; but 
if we understand by it, that power of the mind which in speculative 
matters discovers truth, and in practical matters judges of the fitness 
of means to an end, I apprehend the question may be easily answer¬ 
ed. For nothing can be more clear, than that taste is not resolv¬ 
able into any such operation of reason. It is not merely through a 
discovery of the understanding or a deduction of argument, that the 
mind receives pleasure from a beautiful prospect or a fine poem. 
Such objects often strike us intuitively, and make a strong impres¬ 
sion, when we are unable to assign the reasons of our being pleased. 
They sometimes strike in the same manner the philosopher and the 
peasant; the boy and the man. Hence the faculty by which we relish 
such beauties, seems more nearly allied to a feeling of sense, than to 
a process of the understanding; and accordingly from an external 
sense it has borrowed its name ; that sense by which we receive 
and distinguish the pleasures of food, having, in several languages. 





LECT. n.j 


TASTE. 


17 


given rise to the word taste, in the metaphorical meaning under 
which we now consider it. However, as in all subjects which regard 
the operations of the mind, the inaccurate use of words is to be 
carefully avoided, it must not be inferred from what I have said, 
that reason is entirely excluded from the exertions of taste. Though 
taste, beyond doubt, be ultimately founded on a certain natural and 
instinctive sensibility to beauty, yet reason, as I shall show hereafter, 
assists taste in many of its operations, and serves to enlarge its power. * 

Taste, in the sense in which I have explained it, is a faculty com* 
mon in some degree to all men. Nothing that belongs to human 
nature is more general than the relish of beauty of one kind or 
other; of what is orderly, proportioned, grand, harmonious, new, 
or sprightly. In children, the rudiments of taste discover them¬ 
selves very early in a thousand instances; in their fondness for regu¬ 
lar bodies, their admiration of pictures and statues, and imitations 
of all kinds; and their strong attachment to whatever is new or 
marvellous. The most ignorant peasants are delighted with ballads 
and tales, and are struck with the beautiful appearance of nature in 
the earth and heavens. Even in the deserts of America, where 
human nature shows itself in its most uncultivated state, the savages 
have their ornaments of dress, their war and their death songs, their 
harangues and their orators. We must therefore conclude the 
principles of taste to be deeply founded in the human mind. It is 
no less essential to man to have some discernment of beauty, than it 
is to possess the attributes of reason and of speech.! 

But although none be wholly devoid of this faculty, yet the de¬ 
grees in which it is possessed are widely different. In some men only 
the feeble glimmerings of taste appear; the beauties which they re¬ 
lish are of the coarsest kind; and of these they have but a weak and 


See Dr. Gerard’s Essay on Taste :—D’Alembert’s Reflections on the use and abuse 
of Philosophy in matters which relate to Taste :—Reflections Critiques sur la Poesie et 
sur la Peinture, tome ii. ch. 22, 31 :—Elements of Criticism, chap. 25 :—Mr. Hume’s 
Essav on the Standard of Taste :—Introduction to the Essay on the Sublime and Beau¬ 
tiful. 

f On the subject of taste, considered as a power or faculty of the mind, much less is 
to be found among the ancient, than among the modern rhetorical and critical wri¬ 
ters. The following remarkable passage in Cicero serves, however, to show that his 
ideas on this subject agree perfectly with what has been said above. He is speaking 
of the beauties of style and numbers. “ Illud autem nequis admirerur, quonam modo 
haec vulo-us imperitorum in audiendo notet; cum in omni genere, turn in hoc ipso, mag- 
na qiuedam est vis, incredibilisque naturae. Omnes enim tacito quodam sensu, sine 
ulla arte aut ratione, quae sinl in artibus ac rationibus recta et prava dijudicant: idque 
cum faciunt in picturis, et in signis, et in aliis operibus, ad quorum intelligentiam a na- 
tura minus habent instrumenti, turn multo ostendunt magis in verborum, numerorum 
vocumque judicio ; quod ea sunt in communibus infixa sensibus ; neque earum rerum 
quenquam funditus natura voluit esse expertem.” Cic. de Orat lib. iii. cap. 50. edit. 
Gruteri.—Quintilian seems to include taste (for which, in the sense which we now give 
to that word, the ancients appear to have had no distinct name) under what he calls 
judicium. “Locus de judicio, me& quidem opinione adeo partibus hujus operis omni¬ 
bus connectus ac mistus est, ut ne a sententiis quidem aut verbis saltern singulis 
possit separari, nec magis arte traditur quam gustus aut odor.—Ut contraria 
vitemus et communia, ne quid in eloquendo corruptum obscurumque sit, referatur 
oportet ad sensus qui non docentur” Institut. lib. vi. cap. 3. edit. Obrechti. 



IS 


TASTE. 


[lect.ii. 


confused impression; while in others, taste rises to an acute dis¬ 
cernment, and a lively enjoyment of the most refu^taste 
o-eneral we may observe, that in the powers and pleasures ol taste, 
there is a more remarkable inequality among men than is usually 
foundTn point of common sense, reason, and judgment ,The con¬ 
stitution of our nature in this, as in all other respects, discovers ad¬ 
mirable wisdom. In the distribution of those talents which are ne 
cessary for man’s well-being, nature hath made less distinction^among 
her children. But in the distribution of those which belong on y 
to the ornamental part of life, she hath bestowed her favours with 
more frugality. She hath both sown the seeds more sparingly, and 
rendered a higher culture requisite for bringing them to perfection. 

This inequality of taste among men is owing, vvithout doubt, n 
part, to the different frame of their natures; to nicer organs, and 
finer internal powers, with which some are endowed beyond others. 
But! If it be owing in part to nature, it is owing to educa ion and 
culture still more. The illustration of this leads to niy next remark 
on this subject, that taste is a most improveable faculty, if there be 
any such in human nature; a remark which gives great encourage¬ 
ment to such a course of study as we are now proposing to pursue 
Of the truth of this assertion we may easily be convinced, byonlj 
reflecting on that immense superiority which education and improve¬ 
ment give to civilized, above barbarous nations, in refinement ot 
taste; and on the superiority which they give in the same nation to 
those who have studied the liberal arts, above the rude and untaught 
vulgar. The difference is so great, that there is perhaps no one par¬ 
ticular in which these two classes of men are so far removed from each 
other, as in respect of the powers and the pleasures of taste : and 
assuredly for this difference no other general cause can be assigned, 
hut culture and education. I shall now proceed to show what the 
means are by which taste becomes so remarkably susceptible ot 

cultivation and progress. . . 

Reflect first upon that great law of our nature, that exercise is the 
chief source of improvement in all our faculties. This holds both 
in our bodily, and in our mental powers. 11 holds even in our exter¬ 
nal senses, although these be less the subject of cultivation than 
any of our other faculties. We see how acute the senses become 
in persons whose trade or business leads to nice exertions of them. 
Touch, for instance, becomes infinitely more exquisite in men whose 
employment requires them to examine the polish of bodies, than it 
is in others. They who deal in microscopical observations, or are 
accustomed to engrave on precious stones, acquire surprising accu- 
racy of sight in discerning the minutest objects; and practice in 
attending to different flavours and tastes of liquors, wonderfully im¬ 
proves the power of distinguishing them, and of tracing their com¬ 
position. Placing internal taste therefore on the footing of a simple 
sense, it cannot be doubted that frequent exercise, and curious at¬ 
tention toils proper objects, must greatly heighten its power. Of 
this we have one clear proof in that part of taste, which is called an 
ear for music. Experience every day shows, that nothing is more 


LECT. II.j 


TASTE. 


19 


improvable. Only the simplest and plainest compositions are 
relished at first; use and practice extend our pleasure; teach us to 
relish finer melody, and by degrees enable us to enter into the intri¬ 
cate and compounded pleasures of harmony. So an eye for the 
beauties of painting is never all at once acquired. It is gradually 
formed by being conversant among pictures, and studying the works 
of the best masters. 

Precisely in the same manner, with respect to the beauty of com¬ 
position and discourse, attention to the most approved models, study 
of the best authors, comparisons of lower and higher degrees of the 
same beauties, operate towards the refinement of taste. When one 
is only beginning his acquaintance with works of genius, the senti¬ 
ment which attends them is obscure and confused. He cannot point 
out the several excellencies or blemishes of a performance which he 
peruses; he is at a loss on what to rest his judgment: all that can 
be expected is, that he should tell in general whether he be pleased 
or not. But allow him more experience in works of this kind, and 
his taste becomes by degrees more exact and enlightened. He 
begins to perceive not only the character of the whole, but the 
beauties and defects of each part; and is able to describe the pecu¬ 
liar qualities which he praises or blames. The mist dissipates which 
seemed formerly to hang over the object; and he can at length pro¬ 
nounce firmly, and without hesitation, concerning it. Thus in taste, 
considered as mere sensibility, exercise opens a great source of im¬ 
provement. 

But although taste be ultimately founded on sensibility, it must 
not be considered as instinctive sensibility alone. Reason and good 
sense, as I before hinted, have so extensive an influence on all the 
operations and decisions of taste, that a thorough good taste may 
well be considered as a power compounded of natural sensibility to 
beauty, and of improved understanding. In order to be satisfied of 
this, let us observe, that the greater part of the productions of genius 
are no other than imitations of nature; representations of the cha¬ 
racters, actions, or manners of men. The pleasure we receive from 
such imitations or representations is founded on mere taste: but to 
judge whether they be properly executed, belongs to the under¬ 
standing, which compares the copy with the original. 

In reading, for instance, such a poem as the iEneid, a great part 
of our pleasure arises from the plan or story being well conducted, 
and all the parts joined together with probability and due connexion; 
from the characters being taken from nature, the sentiments being 
suited to the characters, and the style to the sentiments. The 
pleasure which arises from a poem so conducted, is felt or enjoyed 
by taste as an internal sense; but the discovery of this conduct in 
the poem is owing to reason; and the more that reason enables us 
to discover such propriety in the conduct, the greater will be our 
pleasure. We are pleased, through our natural sense of beauty. 
Reason shows us why, and upon what grounds, we are pleased. 
Wherever in works of taste, any resemblance to nature is aimed at; 
wherever there is any reference of parts to a whole, or of means to 


TASTE. 


L-LECT. IX. 


#0 

an end, as there is indeed in almost every writing and discourse, 
there the understanding must always have a great part to act. 

Here then is a wide field for reason’s exerting its powers in relation 
to the objects of taste, particularly with respect to composition, 
and works of genius; and hence arises a second and a very consi- 
derable source of the improvement of taste, from the application oi 
reason and good sense to such productions of genius. Spurious 
beauties, such as unnatural characters, forced sentiments, affected 
style, may please for a little; but they please only because their 
opposition to nature and to good sense has not been examined, 01 
attended to. Once show how nature might have been more justly 
imitated or represented; how the writer might have managed his 
subject to greater advantage; the illusion will presently be dissipat¬ 
ed, and these false beauties will please no more. 

From these two sources then, first, the frequent exercise of taste, 
and next the application of good sense and reason to the objects of 
taste, taste as a power of the mind receives its improvement. In 
its perfect state, it is undoubtedly the result both of nature and of 
art. It supposes our natural sense of beauty to be refined by fre¬ 
quent attention to the most beautiful objects, and at the same time 
to be guided and improved by the light of the understanding. 

I must be allowed to add, that as a sound head, so likewise a good 
heart, is a very material requisite to just taste. The moral beauties 
are not only themselves superior to all others, but they exert an 
influence, either more near, or more remote, on a great variety of 
other objects of taste. Wherever the affections, characters, or ac¬ 
tions of men are concerned, (and these certainly afford the noblest 
subjects to genius,) there can be neither any just or affecting des¬ 
cription of them, nor any thorough feeling of the beauty of that 
description, without our possessing the virtuous affections. He whose 
heart is indelicate or hard, he who has no admiration of what is truly 
noble or praise-worthy, nor the proper sympathetic sense of what is 
soft and tender, must have a very imperfect relish of the highest 
beauties of eloquence and poetry. 

The characters of taste, when brought to its most improved state, 
are all reducible to two, Delicacy and Correctness. 

Delicacy of taste respects principally the perfection of that natu¬ 
ral sensibility on which taste is founded. It implies those finer or¬ 
gans or powers which enable us to discover beauties that lie hid from 
a vulgar eye. One may have strong sensibility, and yet be deficient 
in delicate taste. He may be deeply impressed by such beauties as 
he perceives; but he perceives only what is in some degree coarse, 
what is bold and palpable; while chaster and simpler ornaments 
escape his notice. In this state, taste generally exists among rude 
and unrefined nations. But a person of delicate taste both feels 
strongly, and feels accurately. He sees distinctions and differences 
where others see none; the most latent beauty does not escape him, 
and he is sensible of the smallest blemish. Delicacy of taste is 
judged of by the same marks that we use in judging of the delicacy 
of an external sense. As the goodness of the palate is not tried by 


LECT. ir.J 


TASTE. 


21 


strong flavours, but by a mixture of ingredients, where, notwithstand¬ 
ing the confusion, we remain sensible of each ; in like manner deli¬ 
cacy of internal taste appears, by a quick and lively sensibility to its 
finest, most compounded, or most latent objects. 

Correctness of taste respects chiefly the improvement which that 
faculty receives through its connexion with the understanding. A 
man of correct taste is one who is never imposed on by counterfeit 
beauties ; who carries always in his mind that standard of good sense 
which he employs in judging of every thing. He estimates with 
propriety the comparative merit of the several beauties which he 
meets with in any work of genius; refers them to their proper classes; 
assigns the principles, as far as they can be traced, whence their 
power of pleasing flows ; and is pleased himself precisely in that 
degree in which he ought, and no more. 

It is true, that these two qualities of taste, delicacy and correct¬ 
ness, mutually imply each other. No taste can be exquisitely deli¬ 
cate without being correct; nor can be thoroughly correct without 
being delicate. But still a predominancy of one or other quality in 
the mixture is often visible. The power of delicacy is chiefly seen 
in discerning the true merit of a work; the power of correctness, in 
rejecting false pretensions to merit. Delicacy leans more to feeling; 
correctness, more to reason and judgment. The former is more 
the gift of nature ; the latter, more the product of culture and art. 
Among the ancient critics, Longinus possessed most delicacy; Aris¬ 
totle, most correctness. Among the moderns, Mr. Addison is a high 
example of delicate taste ; Dean Swift, had he written on the subject 
of criticism, would perhaps have afforded the example of a correct 
one. 

Having viewed taste in its most improved and perfect state, I 
come next to consider its deviations from that state, the fluctuations 
and changes to which it is liable; and to inquire whether, in the 
midst of these, there be any means of distinguishing a true from a 
corrupted taste. This brings us to the most difficult part of our 
task. For it must be acknowledged, that no principle of the human 
mind is, in its operations, more fluctuating and capricious than taste. 
Its variations have been so great and frequent, as to create a suspicion 
with some, of its being merely arbitrary; grounded on no foundation, 
ascertainable by no standard, but wholly dependent on changing 
fancy ; the consequence of which would be, that all studies or regu¬ 
lar inquiries concerning the objects of taste were vain. In architec¬ 
ture, the Grecian models were long esteemed the most perfect. In 
succeeding ages, the Gothic architecture alone prevailed, and after¬ 
wards the Grecian taste revived in all its vigour, and engrossed the 
public admiration. In eloquence and poetry, the Asiatics at no time 
relished any thing but what was full of ornament, and splendid in a 
degree that we should denominate gawdy; whilst the Greeks admir¬ 
ed only chaste and simple beauties, and despised the Asiatic osten¬ 
tation. In our own country, how many writings that were greatly 
extolled two or three centuries ago, are now fallen into entire disre¬ 
pute and oblivion ? Without going back to remote instances, how 


22 


TASTE. 


[lect. ii. 


very different is the taste of poetry which prevails in Great Britain 
now from what prevailed there no longer ago than the reign of king 
Charles II which the authors too of that time deemejl an Augustan 
age • when nothing was in vogue but an affected brilliancy of wit; 
when the simple majesty of Milton was overlooked, and Paradise 
Lost almost entirely unknown; when Cowley’s laboured and unna¬ 
tural conceits were admired as the very quintessence of genius; 
Waller’s gay sprightliness was mistaken for the tender spirit of love 
poetry ; and such writers as Suckling and Etheridge were held in 

esteem for dramatic composition ? , . , 

The question is, what conclusion we are to form from such instan¬ 
ces as these? Is there any thing that can be called a standard of 
taste, by appealing to which we may distinguish between a good 
and a bad taste > Or, is there in truth no such distinction ? and are 
we to hold that, according to the proverb, there is no disputing of 
tastes; but that whatever pleases is right, for that reason that it does 
please ? This is the question, and a very nice and subtle one it is, 

which we are now to discuss. , , 

I beo’in by observing, that if there be no such thing as any standard 
of taste this consequence must immediately follow, that all tastes 
are equally good; a position, which, though it may pass unnoticed 
in slight matters, and when we speak of the lesser differences among 
the tastes of men, yet when we apply it to the extremes, present¬ 
ly shows its absurdity. For is there any one who will seriously 
maintain that the taste of a Hottentot or a Laplander is as delicate 
and as correct as that of a Longinus or an Addison ? or, that he can 
be charged with no defect or incapacity who thinks a common news- 
writer as excellent an historian as Tacitus ? As it would be held 
downright extravagance to talk in this manner, we are led unavoid¬ 
ably to this conclusion, that there is some foundation for the prefer¬ 
ence of one man’s taste to that of another; or, that there is a good 
and a bad, a right and a wrong in taste, as in other things. 

But to prevent mistakes on this subject, it is necessary to observe 
next, that the diversity of tastes which prevails among mankind > does 
not in every case infer corruption of taste, or oblige us to seek for 
some standard in order to determine who are in the right. The 
tastes of men may differ very considerably as to their object, and yet 
none of them be wrong. One man relishes poetry most; another 
takes pleasure in nothing but history. One prefers comedy; another, 
tragedy. One admires the simple ; another, the ornamented style. 
The young are amused with gay and sprightly compositions. The 
elderly are more entertained with those of a graver cast. Some 
nations delight in bold pictures of manners, and strong representations 
of passion. Others incline to more correct and regular elegance 
both in description and sentiment. Though all differ, yet all pitch 
upon some one beauty which peculiarly suits their turn of mind; 
and therefore no one has a title to condemn the rest. It is not in 
matters of taste, as in questions of mere reason, where there is but 
one conclusion that can be true, and all the rest are erroneous. 
Truth, which is the object of reason, is one; beauty, which is the 


XECT. II.] 


TASTE. 


23 


object of taste, is manifold. Taste, therefore, admits of latitude and 
diversity of objects, in sufficient consistency with goodness or just¬ 
ness of taste. 

But then, to explain this matter thoroughly, I must observe farther, 
that this admissible diversity of tastes can only have place where the 
objects of taste are different. Where it is with respect to the same 
object that men disagree, when one condemns that as ugly, which 
another admires as highly beautiful; then it is no longer diversity, 
but direct opposition of taste that takes place; and therefore one 
must be in the right, and another in the wrong, unless that absurd 
paradox were allowed to hold, that all tastes are equally good and 
true. One man prefers Virgil to Homer. Suppose that I, on the 
other hand, admire Homer more than Virgil. I have as yet no rea¬ 
son to say that our tastes are contradictory. The other person is 
more struck with the elegance and tenderness which are the charac¬ 
teristics of Virgil; I, with the simplicity and fire of Homer. As 
long as neither of us deny that both Homer and Virgil have great 
beauties, our difference falls within the compass of that diversity of 
tastes, which I have showed to be natural and allowable. But if the 
other man shall assert that Homer has no beauties whatever; that 
he holds him to be a dull and spiritless writer, and that he would as 
soon peruse any old legend of knight-errantry as the Iliad ; then I 
exclaim, that my antagonist either is void of all taste, or that his taste 
is corrupted in a miserable degree; and I appeal to whatever I think 
the standard of taste, to show him that he is in the wrong. 

What that standard is to which, in such opposition of tastes, we 
are obliged to have recourse, remains to be traced. A standard pro¬ 
perly signifies, that which is of such undoubted authority as to be 
the test of other things of the same kind. Thus a standard weight 
or measure, is that which is appointed by law to regulate all other 
measures and weights. Thus the court is said to be the standard of 
good breeding; and the scripture of theological truth. 

When we say that nature is the standard of taste, we lay down a 
principle very true and just, as far as it can be applied. There is no 
doubt, that in all cases where an imitation is intended of some object 
that exists in nature, as in representing human characters or actions, 
conformity to nature affords a full and distinct criterion of what is 
truly beautiful. Reason hath in such cases full scope for exerting 
its authority; for approving or condemning; by comparing the copy 
with the original. But there are innumerable cases in which this 
rule cannot be at all applied ; and conformity to nature, is an ex¬ 
pression frequently used, without any distinct or determinate mean¬ 
ing. We must therefore search for somewhat that can be rendered 
more clear and precise, to be the standard of taste. 

Taste, as I before explained it, is ultimately founded on an inter¬ 
nal sense of beauty, which is natural to men, and which, in its 
application to particular objects, is capable of being guided and en¬ 
lightened by reason. Now were there any one person who possessed 
in full perfection all the powers of human nature, whose internal 
senses were in everv instance exquisite and just, and whose reason 


34 


TASTE. 


[lect. n. 


was unerring and sure, the determinations of such a person con¬ 
cerning beauty, would, beyond doubt, be a perfect standard for the 
taste of all others. Wherever their taste differed from his, it could 
be imputed only to some imperfection in their natural powers. But 
as there is no such living standard, no one person to Whom all man¬ 
kind will allow such submission to be due, what is there of sufficient 
authority to be the standard of the various and opposite tastes of men ? 
Most certainly there is nothing but the taste, as far as it can be 
gathered, of human nature. That which men concur the most in 
admiring, must he held to be beautiful. His taste must be esteemed 
just and true, which coincides with the general sentiments of men. 
Jn this standard we must rest. To the sense of mankind the ulti¬ 
mate appeal must ever lie, in all works of taste. If any one should 
maintain that sugar was bitter and tobacco was sweet, no reasonings 
could avail to prove it. The taste of such a person would infallibly 
be held to be diseased, merely because it differed so widely from 
the taste of the species to which he belongs. In like manner, with 
regard to the objects of sentiment or internal taste, the common 
feelings of men carry the same authority, and have a title to regulate 
the taste of every individual. 

But have we then, it will be said, no other criterion of what is 
beautiful, than the approbation of the majority ? Must we collect 
the voices of others, before we form any judgment for ourselves, of 
what deserves applause in eloquence or poetry? By no means; 
there are principles of reason and sound judgment which can be ap¬ 
plied to matters of taste, as well as to the subjects of science and 
philosophy. He who admires or censures any work of genius, is 
always ready, if his taste be in any degree improved, to assign some 
reasons for his decision. lie appeals to principles, and points out 
the grounds on which he proceeds. Taste is a sort of compound 
power, in which the light of the understanding always mingles, more 
or less, with the feelings of sentiment. 

But though reason can carry us a certain length in judging con¬ 
cerning works of taste, it is not to be forgotten that the ultimate 
conclusions to which our reasonings lead, refer at last to sense and 
perception. We may speculate and argue concerning propriety of 
conduct in a tragedy, or an epic poem. Just reasonings on the sub¬ 
ject will correct the caprice of unenlightened taste, and establish 
principles for judging of what deserves praise. But, at the same 
time, these reasonings appeal always in the last resort, to feeling 
The foundation upon which they rest, is what has been found from 
experience to please mankind universally. Upon this ground we 
prefer a simple and natural, to an artificial and affected style • a 
legulai and well connected story, to loose and scattered narratives* 
a catastrophe which is tender and pathetic, to one which leaves us 
unmoved. It is from consulting our own imagination and heart, and 
irom attending to the feelings of others, that any principles are 
lormed which acquire authority in matters of taste.* 


d fT nCe b / 1 twcen the authors who found the standard of taste upon the 
common feelings of human nature ascertained by general approbation, and those 





LECT. II.] 


TASTE. 


When we refer to the concurring sentiments of men as the ultimate 
taste of what is to be accounted beautiful in the arts, this is to be 
always understood of men placed in such situations as are favourable 
to the proper exertions of taste. Every one must perceive, that 
among rude and uncivilized nations, and during the ages of igno¬ 
rance and darkness, any loose notions that are entertained concern¬ 
ing such subjects, carry no authority. In those states of society, 
taste has no materials on which to operate. It is either totally sup¬ 
pressed, or appears in its lower and most imperfect form. We refer 
to the sentiments of mankind in polished and flourishing nations; 
when arts are cultivated and manners refined; when works of genius 
are subjected to free discussion, and taste is improved by science 
and philosophy. 

Even among nations, at such a period of society, I admit that 
accidental causes may occasionally warp the proper operations of 
taste; sometimes the taste of religion, sometimes the form of go¬ 
vernment, may for a while pervert; a licentious court may intro¬ 
duce a taste for false ornaments, and dissolute writings. The usage 
of one admired genius may procure approbation for his faults, and 
even render them fashionable. Sometimes envy may have power 
to bear down, for a little, productions of great merit; while popular 
humour, or party spirit, may, at other times, exalt to a high, though 
short-lived reputation, what little deserved it. But though such 
casual circumstances give the appearance of caprice to the judg¬ 
ments of taste, that appearance is easily corrected. In the course of 
time, the genuine taste of human nature never fails to disclose itself, 
and to gain the ascendant over any fantastic and corrupted modes of 
taste which may chance to have been introduced. These may have 
currency for a while, and mislead superficial judges; but being sub¬ 
jected to examination, by degrees they pass away; while that alone 
remains which is founded on sound reason, and the native feelings 
of men. 

I by no means pretend, that there is any standard of taste, to which, 
in every particular instance, we can resort for clear and immediate 
determination. Where, indeed, is such a standard to be found for 


who found it upon established principles which can be ascertained by reason, is 
more an apparent than a real difference. Like many other literary controversies, 
it turns chiefly on modes of expression. For they who lay the greatest stress on 
sentiment and feeling, make no scruple of applying argument and reason to mat¬ 
ters of taste. They appeal, like other writers, to established principles, in judging 
of the excellencies of eloquence or poetry ; and plainly show, that the general ap¬ 
probation to which they ultimately recur, is an approbation resulting from discus¬ 
sion as well as from sentiment. They, on the other hand, who, in order to vindi¬ 
cate taste from any suspicion of being arbitrary, maintain that it is ascertainable 
by the standard of reason, admit, nevertheless, that what pleases universally, must, 
on that account, be held to be truly beautiful ; and that no rules or conclusions con¬ 
cerning objects of taste, can have any just authority, if they be found to contradict 
the general sentiments of men. These two systems, therefore, differ in reality 
very little from one another. Sentiment and reason enter into both ; and by al¬ 
lowing to each of these powers its due place, both systems may be rendered con¬ 
sistent. Accordingly, it is in this light that I have endeavoured to place the sub¬ 
ject. 

o 


4 




TASTE. 


[LECT. Ur 


g(> 


deciding any of those great controversies in reason and philosophy, 
which perpetually divide mankind ? In the present case, there was 
plainly no occasion for any such strict and absolute provision to he 
made. In order to judge of what is morally good or evil, of what 
man ought, or ought not in duty to do, it was fit that the means of 
clear and precise determination should be afforded us. But to as¬ 
certain in every case with the utmost exactness what is beautiful or 
elegant, was not at all necessary to the happiness of man. And 
therefore some diversity in feeling was here allowed to take place; 
and room was left for discussion and debate, concerning the degree 
of approbation to which any work of genius is entitled. 

The conclusion, which it is sufficient for us to rest upon, is, that 
taste is far from being an arbitrary principle, which is subject to the 
fancy of every individual, and which admits of no criterion for deter¬ 
mining whether it be false or true. Its foundation is the same in all 
human minds. It is built upon sentiments and perceptions which 
belong to our nature; and which, in general, operate with the same 
uniformity as our other intellectual principles. When these senti¬ 
ments are perverted by ignorance and prejudice, they are capable 
of being rectified by reason. Their sound and natural state is ulti¬ 
mately determined, by comparing them with the general taste of 
mankind. Let men declaim as much as they please concerning the 
caprice and the uncertainty of taste, it is found, by experience, that 
there are beauties, which, if they be displayed in a proper light, 
have power to command lasting and general admiration. In every 
composition, what interests the imagination, and touches the heart, 
pleases all ages and all nations. There is a certain string to which, 
when properly struck, the human heart is so made as to answer. 

Hence the universal testimony which the most improved nations 
of the earth have conspired, throughout a long tract of ages, to give 
to some few works of genius; such as the Iliad of Homer, and the 
iEneid of Virgil. Hence the authority which such works have ac¬ 
quired, as standards in some degree of poetical composition; since 
from them we are enabled to collect what the sense of mankind is, 
concerning those beauties which give them the highest pleasure, and 
which therefore poetry ought to exhibit. Authority or prejudice 
may, in one age or country, give a temporary reputation to an in¬ 
different poet or a bad artist; but when foreigners, or when poste- * 
rity examine his works, his faults are discerned, and the genuine 
taste of human nature appears. u Opinionum commenta delet dies; 

“ naturse judicia confirmat.” Time overthrows the illusions of 
opinion, but establishes the decisions of nature. 


( 26 a ) 


Q,UESTIOtfS. 


Why does the nature of the present 
undertaking; lead our author to begin 
with some inquiries concerning; taste ? 
Of it what is observed ? In what order 
does our author propose to treat it? 
How may it be defined ? What is the 
first question that occurs concerning it ? 
Of reason, what is observed? From 
what does it appear evident that taste 
is not resolvable into any operation of 
reason; and why ? How is this farther 
illustrated, and what follows? Why 
must it not be inferred, from what has 
been said, that reason is entirely ex¬ 
cluded from the exertions of taste? 
Though taste is ultimately founded on 
a certain natural sensibility to beauty, 
yet what follows? How does it appear 
that taste, in the sense in which it has 
been explained, is a faculty common to 
all men ? How is this remark illustra¬ 
ted? What must we therefore con¬ 
clude *, and why ? Though none are 
entirely devoid of this faculty, yet how 
does it appear that the degrees in which 
it is. possessed are widely different? 
What may we in general observe? 
How does it appear that the constitu¬ 
tion of one nature, in this respect, dis¬ 
covers admirable wisdom ? To what is 
this inequality of taste among men, to 
be, in part, attributed? To what is it 
more particularly owing? To what 
does the illustration of this lead ? Of 
this remark, what is observed? How 
may we be convinced of the truth of 
this assertion ? Of this difference, what 
is observed? What is one of the first 
laws of our nature ? How is this illus¬ 
trated? What, therefore, cannot be 
doubted? In what have we a clear 
proof of this remark; and how is this 
illustrated ? Of the beauty of composi¬ 
tion and discourse, what is observed? 
IIow does it appear, that when a per¬ 
son commences an acquaintance with 
works of genius, the sentiment which 
attends them is obscure and confused ? 
What will be the effect of greater ex¬ 
perience in works of this kind ? How is 
this further illustrated? As taste is 
ultimately founded on sensibility, why 
may we not consider its foundation in 
instinctive sensibility alone ? How may 
we be satisfied that a good taste con¬ 
sists in natural sensibility to beauty. 


and &n improved understanding ? How 
is this illustrated from the reading of 
the iEneid of Virgil? In proportion to 
what will our pleasure be increased ? 
Through what are w T e pleased; and 
what does reason show us? Where 
must the understanding always have 
a greater part to act ? For what is there 
here a wide field; in what particular; 
and hence what arises? Of spurious 
beauties, &c. what is observed ? How 
may the illusion be dissipated ? From 
what does taste receive its improve¬ 
ment ? Of what is it the result in its 
perfect state; and what does it sup¬ 
pose? What remark is added? Of 
moral beauties what is observed ? How 
is this illustrated ? Persons of what de¬ 
scription must, necessarily, have a very 
imperfect relish of the highest beauties 
of eloquence and poetry ? To what are 
the characters of taste, in its most per¬ 
fect state, reducible ? What does deli¬ 
cacy of taste respect; and what does it 
imply? How is this illustrated ? Where 
does taste in this state exist ? Of a per¬ 
son of delicate taste, w r hat is observed ? 
How is it illustrated, that delicacy of 
taste is judged of by the same marks 
by which we judge of the delicacy of 
an external sense ? What does correct¬ 
ness of taste principally respect ? What 
is remarked of a man of correct taste ? 
How does it appear that delicacy and 
correctness mutually imply each other ? 
In what is the power of delicacy chiefly 
seen ; and of correctness ? To what do 
they respectively lean ? Of what is the 
former the gift; and how is the latter 
produced ? What examples of illustra¬ 
tion are given from the ancients; and 
from the moderns ? 

Having viewed taste in its most im¬ 
proved state, what does our author 
next consider ? Why does this bring us 
to the most difficult part of our task ? 
Of what have the greatness and fre¬ 
quency of its variations created suspi¬ 
cions ? How is this illustrated from the 
architecture, eloquence, and poetry of 
the ancients; and the taste for poetry 
among the moderns ? What interroga¬ 
tions follow ? If there is no standard of 
taste, what consequence follow's? Of 
this position -what is remarked ? How 
is this illustrated? As it would be con- 





26 b 


QUESTIONS. [lect. ii 


sidered extravagant to talk in this 
manner, to what conclusion are we 
unavoidably led ? To prevent mistakes, 
what observation is it necessary, in the 
next place, to make ? How does it ap¬ 
pear that the tastes of men may differ 
very considerably in their object, and 
still none of them be wrong? Though 
all differ, yet upon what do all pitch ? 
How is this illustrated ? To explain this 
matter thoroughly, what observation is 
necessary? When does this disagree¬ 
ment among men cease to be diversity 
of taste; and what follows ? How is 
this remark illustrated from the pre¬ 
ference given by some men to Homer, 
and by others to Virgil? How long 
may our diversity be considered natu¬ 
ral and allowable ? What assertions 
would induce us to consider a man’s 
taste corrupted in a miserable degree; 
and to what do we appeal ? What do 
we, on any subject, consider a standard ? 
What illustrations are given ? How far 
may nature be regarded as a standard ? 
In what cases does nature afford a full 
and distinct criterion of what is truly 
beautiful? Of reason, in such cases, 
what is said ? Why are we sometimes 
tinder the necessity of searching for 
something that can be rendered more 
clear and precise than nature, as a 
standard of taste? On what is taste 
ultimately founded ? A person of what 
description might be considered a stand¬ 
ard of taste ? But as there is no such 
living standard, what follows; and 
hence what is the ultimate standard ? 
How is this illustrated ? How would 
the taste of such a person be regarded; 
why; and what follows? What inter¬ 
rogations follow; and to them what 
reply is given; and why? Of the ad¬ 
mirer or censurer of any work of 
genius, what remark follows ? Though 
reason can carry us a certain length in 
judging concerning works of taste, yet 
what must not be forgotten ? Concern¬ 
ing what may we speculate and argue? 
On this subject, what will just reason¬ 
ing correct ? At the same time, to what 
do these reasonings always appeal? 
On what foundation do they rest? 
Upon this ground, what receives our 
preference ? How are principles which 


acquire authority in matters of taste 
formed ? Why is it necessary that the 
person to whom we refer as a standard, 
should live under circumstances fa¬ 
vourable to the exertions of taste ? To 
the inhabitants of what nations do we, 
therefore, refer? Among nations at such 
a period of society, in what different 
ways may the proper operations of 
taste be warped ? What appearance 
do such casual circumstances give to 
the judgments of taste? How is that 
appearance easily corrected? Of the 
currency which these may have for a 
while, what is remarked? To what 
does our author not pretend ; and what 
illustrative remarks follow ? What con¬ 
clusion is given, upon which it is suf¬ 
ficient for us to rest ? Of its foundation 
what is remarked; and upon what is 
it built? When these sentiments are 
perverted by ignorance and prejudice, 
how may they be rectified? How is 
their sound and natural state ultimate¬ 
ly determined? Though men declaim 
concerning the caprice of taste, yet 
what is found by experience to be true? 
How is this illustrated; and hence 
what follows ? For an indifferent poet, 
or a bad artist, what may authority or 
prejudice do ? But when will his faults 
be discerned, and the genuine taste of 
mankind appear ? 


ANALYSIS. 

1. Introductory remarks. 

2. The definition of Taste. 

3. The nature of Taste. 

a. Instinct and Reason. 

b. Its universality. 

€• Its degrees. 

D. Sources of its improvement, 

a. Exercise. 

b. Reason and good sense. 

c. Morals. 

4. The characters of Taste. 

a. Delicacy. 

b. Correctness. 

5. The variations of Taste. 

6. The standard of Taste. 

a. Arguments for, and against a 
standard. 

b. The conclusion. 










(a7) 


LECTURE III. 


CRITICISM....GENIUS....PLEASURES OP TASTE.... 
SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. 

Taste, criticism, and genius, are words currently employed, with¬ 
out distinct ideas annexed to them. In beginning a course of lec¬ 
tures where such words must often occur, it is necessary to ascertain 
their meaning with some precision. Having in the last lecture treat¬ 
ed of taste, I proceed to explain the nature and foundation of criti¬ 
cism. True criticism is the application of taste and of good sense 
to the several fine arts. The object which it proposes is, to distin¬ 
guish what is beautiful and what is faulty in every performance ; 
from particular instances to ascend to general principles; and so to 
form rules or conclusions concerning the several kinds of beauty in 
works of genius. 

The rules of criticism are not formed by any induction a priori , 
as it is called; that is, they are not formed by a train of abstract 
reasoning, independent of facts and observations. Criticism is an 
art founded wholly on experience; on the observations of such beau¬ 
ties as have come nearest to the standard which I before established; 
that is, of such beauties as have been found to please mankind most 
generally. For example: Aristotle’s rules concerning the unity of 
action in dramatic and epic composition, were not rules first disco¬ 
vered by logical reasoning,and then applied to poetry ; but they 
were drawn from the practice of Homer and Sophocles: they were 
founded upon observing the superior pleasure which we receive from 
the relation of an action which is one and entire, beyond what we 
receive from the relation of scattered and unconnected facts. Such 
observations taking their rise at first from feeling and experience, 
were found on examination to be so consonant to reason and to the 
principles of human nature, as to pass into established rules, and to 
be conveniently applied for judging of the excellency of any per¬ 
formance. This is the most natural account of the origin of criti¬ 
cism. 

A masterly genius, it is true, will of himself, untaught, compose 
in such a manner as shall be agreeable to the most material rules of 
criticism: for as these rules are founded in nature, nature will often 
suggest them in practice. Homer, it is more than probable, was ac¬ 
quainted with no systems of the art of poetry. Guided by genius 
alone, he composed in verse a regular story, which all posterity has 
admired. But this is no argument against the usefulness of criticism 
as an art. For as no human genius is perfect, there is no writer but 
may receive assistance from critical observations upon the beauties 
and faults of those who have gone before him. No observations or 
rules can indeed supply the defect of genius, or inspire it where it 


26 


CRITICISM. 


[lect. in¬ 


is wanting. But they may often direct it into its proper channel; 
they may correct its extravagances, and point out to it the most just 
and proper imitation of nature. Critical rules are designed chiefly 
to show the faults that ought to he avoided. To nature we must be 
indebted for the production of eminent beauties. 

From what has been said, we are enabled to form a judgment con¬ 
cerning those complaints which it has long been fash ionable for petty 
authors to make against critics and criticism. Critics have been 
represented as the great abridgers of the native liberty of genius; as 
the imposers of unnatural shackles and bonds upon writers, from 
whose cruel persecution they must fly to the public, and implore its 
protection. Such supplicatory prefaces are not calculated to give 
very favourable ideas of the genius of the author. Foi every goo 
writer will be pleased to have his work examined by the principles 
of sound understanding and true taste. The declamations against 
criticism commonly proceed upon this supposition, that critics aie 
such as judge by rule, not by feeling; which is so far from being 
true, that they who judge after this manner are pedants, not critics. 
For all the rules of genuine criticism I have shown to be ultimately 
founded on feeling; and taste and feeling are necessary to guide us 
in the application of these rules to every particular instance. As 
there is nothing in which all sorts of persons more readily affect to 
be judges than in works of taste, there is no doubt that the number 
of incompetent critics will always be great. But this affords no 
more foundation for a general invective against criticism, than the 
number of bad philosophers or reasoners affords against reason and 

philosophy. # ... 

An objection more plausible maybe formed against criticism, irom 
the applause that some performances have received from the public, 
which, when accurately considered, are found to contradict the 
rules established by criticism. Now, according to the principles 
laid down in the last lecture, the public is the supreme judge to 
whom the last appeal must be made in every work of taste; as the 
standard of taste is founded on the sentiments that are natural and 
common to all men. But with respect to this, we are to observe, that 
the sense of the public is often too hastily judged of. The genuine 
public taste does not always appear in the first applause given upon 
the publication of any new work. There are both a great vulgar 
and a small, apt 10 be catched and dazzled by very superficial beau¬ 
ties, the admiration of which in a little time passes away; and some¬ 
times a writer may acquire great temporary reputation merely by 
his compliance with the passions or prejudices, with the party-spirit 
or superstitious notions that may chance to rule for a time almost a 
whole nation. In such cases, though the public may seem to praise, 
true criticism may with reason condemn; and it will in progress ot 
time gain the ascendant: for the judgment of true criticism, and the 
voice of the public, when once become unprejudiced and dispassion¬ 
ate, will ever coincide at last. 

Instances, I admit, there are of some works that contain gross 
transgressions of the laws of criticism, acquiring, nevertheless, a 


LECT. III.] 


GENIUS. 


29 


general, and even a lasting admiration. Such are the plays of 
Shakspeure, which, considered as dramatic poems, are irregular in 
the highest degree. But then we are to remark, that they have 
gained the public admiration, not by their being irregular, not by 
their transgressions of the rules of art, but in spite of. such trans¬ 
gressions. They possess other beauties which are conformable to 
just rules; and the force of these beauties has been so great as to 
overpower all censure, and to give the public a degree of satisfaction 
superior to the disgust arising from their blemishes. Shakspeare 
pleases, not by his bringing the transactions of many years into one 
play; not by his grotesque mixtures of tragedy and comedy in one 
piece, nor by the strained thoughts and affected witticisms, which he 
sometimes employs. These we consider as blemishes, and impute 
them to the grossness of the age in which he lived. But he pleases 
by his animated and masterly representations of characters, by the 
liveliness of his descriptions, the force of his sentiments, and his 
possessing, beyond all writers, the natural language of passion: 
Beauties which true criticism no less teaches us to place in the 
highest rank, than nature teaches us to feel. 

I proceed next to explain the meaning of another term, which 
there will be frequent occasion to employ in these lectures; that is, 
genius. 

Taste and genius are two words frequently joined together; and 
therefore by inaccurate thinkers, confounded. They signify, how¬ 
ever, two quite different things. The difference between them can 
be clearly pointed out; and it is of importance to remember it. 
Taste consists in the power of judging; genius, in the power of 
executing. One may have a considerable degree of taste in poetry, 
eloquence, or any of the fine arts, who has little or hardly any genius 
for composition or execution in any of these arts: but genius cannot 
be found without including taste also. Genius, therefore, deserves 
to be considered as a higher power of the mind than taste. Genius 
always imports something inventive or creative; which does not rest 
in mere sensibility to beauty where it is perceived, but which can, 
moreover, produce new beauties, and exhibit them in such a manner 
as strongly to impress the minds of others. Refined taste forms a 
good critic; but genius is farther necessary to form the poet, or the 
orator. 

It is proper also to observe, that genius is a word, which, in com¬ 
mon acceptation, extends much farther than to the objects of taste. 
It is used to signify that talent or aptitude which we receive from 
nature, for excelling in any one thing whatever. Thus we speak of 
a genius for mathematics, as well as a genius for poetry; of a genius 
for war, for politics, or for any mechanical employment. 

This talent or aptitude for excelling in some one particular, is, I 
have said, what we receive from nature. By art and study, no doubt, 
it may be greatly improved; but by them alone it cannot be acquir¬ 
ed. As genius is a higher faculty than taste, it is ever, according to 
the usual frugality of nature, more limited in the sphere of its opera¬ 
tions. It is not uncommon to meet with persons who have an excel- 


30 


PLEASURES OF TASTE. 


[LECT. XlJf, 


lent taste in several of the polite arts, such as music, poetry, painting, 
and eloquence, altogether: but, to find one who is an excellent per¬ 
former in all these arts, is much more rare; or rather, indeed, such 
an one is not to be looked for. A sort of universal genius, or one 
who is equally and indifferently turned towards several different pro¬ 
fessions and arts, is not likely to excel in any. Although there may 
be some few exceptions, yet in general it holds, that when the bent 
of the mind is wholly directed towards some one object, exclusive in a 
manner of others, there is the fairest prospect of eminence in that, 
whatever it be. The rays must converge to a point, in order to 
glow intensely. This remark I here choose to make, on account of 
its great importance to young people; in leading them to examine 
with care, and to pursue with ardour, the current and pointing of 
nature towards those exertions of genius in which they are most 
likely to excel. 

A genius for any of the fine arts, as I before observed, always sup¬ 
poses taste; and it is clear, that the improvement of taste will serve 
both to forward and to correct the operations of genius. In propor¬ 
tion as the taste of a poet, or orator, becomes more refined with re¬ 
spect to the beauties of composition, it will certainly assist him to 
produce the more finished beauties in his work. Genius, however, 
in a poet or orator, may sometimes exist in a higher degree than 
taste; that is, genius may be bold and strong, when taste is neither 
very delicate, nor very correct. This is often the case in the infan¬ 
cy of arts; a period, when genius frequently exerts itself with great 
vigour, and executes with much warmth; while taste, which requires 
experience, and improves by slower degrees, hath not yet attained 
to its full growth. Homer and Shakspeare are proofs of what I now 
assert; in whose admirable writings are found instances of rudeness 
and indelicacy, which the more refined taste of later writers, who 
had far inferior genius to them, would have taught them to avoid. 
As all human perfection is limited, this may very probably be the 
law of our nature, that it is not given to one man to execute with 
vigour and fire, and, at the same time, to attend to all the lesser and 
more refined graces that belong to the exact perfection of his work: 
while, on the other hand, a thorough taste for those inferior graces is 
for the most part, accompanied with a diminution of sublimity and 
force. 

Having thus explained the nature of taste, the nature and impor¬ 
tance of criticism, and the distinction between taste and genius; 
I am now to consider the sources of the pleasures of taste. Here 
opens a very extensive field; no less than all the pleasures of the 
imagination, as they are commonly called, whether afforded us by 
natural objects, or by the imitations and descriptions of them. 
But it is not necessary to the purpose of my lectures, that all these 
should be examined fully; the pleasure which we receive from 
discourse, or writing, being the main object of them. All that I 
propose is to give some openings into the pleasures of taste in 
general; and to insist, more particularly upon sublimity and beauty. 


LECT. III.] 


PLEASURES OF TASTE. 


31 


We are far from having yet attained to any system concerning 
this subject. Mr. Addison was the first who attempted a regular in¬ 
quiry, in his Essay on the Pleasures of the Imagination, published in 
the sixth volume of the Spectator. He has reduced these pleasures 
under three heads,—beauty, grandeur, and novelty. His specula¬ 
tions on this subject, if not exceedingly profound, are, however, very 
beautiful and entertaining; and he has the merit of having opened 
a track, which was before unbeaten. The advances made since his 
time in this curious part of philosophical criticism, are not very 
considerable ; though some ingenious writers have pursued the sub¬ 
ject. This is owing, doubtless, to that thinness and subtilty which 
are found to be properties of all the feelings of taste. They are 
engaging objects; but when we would lay firm hold of them, and 
subject them to a regular discussion, they are always ready to elude 
our grasp. It is difficult to make a full enumeration of the several 
objects that give pleasure to taste: it is more difficult to define all 
those which have been discovered, and to reduce them under pro¬ 
per classes ; and, when we would go farther, and investigate the effi¬ 
cient causes of the pleasure which we receive from such objects, 
here, above all, we find ourselves at a loss. For instance ; we all 
learn by experience, that certain figures of bodies appear to us 
more beautiful than others. On inquiring farther, we find that the 
regularity of some figures, and the graceful variety of others, are 
the foundation of the beauty which we discern in them; but when 
we attempt to go a step beyond this, and inquire what is the cause 
of regularity and variety producing in our minds the sensation of 
beauty, any reason we can assign is extremely imperfect. These 
first principles of internal sensation, nature seems to have covered 
with an impenetrable veil. 

It is some comfort, however, that although the efficient cause be 
obscure, the final cause of those sensations lies in many cases more 
open: and, in entering on this subject, we cannot avoid taking notice 
of the strong impression which the powers of taste and imagina¬ 
tion are calculated to give us of the benignity of our Creator. By 
endowing us with such powers, he hath widely enlarged the sphere 
of the pleasure of human life; and those, too, of a kind the most 
pure and innocent. The necessary purposes of life might have 
been abundantly answered, though our senses of seeing and hearing 
had only served to distinguish external objects, without conveying 
to us any of those refined and delicate sensations of beauty and gran¬ 
deur, with which we are now so much delighted. This additional 
embellishment and glory, which for promoting our entertainment, 
the Author of nature hath poured forth upon his works, is one stri¬ 
king testimony, among many others, of benevolence and goodness. 
This thought, which Mr. Addison first started, Dr. Akenside, in his 
poem on the Pleasures of the Imagination, has happily pursued. 

.Not content 

With every food of life to nourish man, 

By kind illusions of the wondering sense, 

Thou mak’st all nature beauty to his eye, 

Or music to his ear. 

E 



SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. 


[LECT. HI. 


32 

I shall begin with considering the pleasure which arises from sub¬ 
limity or grandeur, which I propose to treat at some len B t , 
bothf as this has a character more precise and distinctly marke 
than any other of the pleasures of the imagination, and as t corn 
cides more directly with our main subject, f or the greater dr- 
tinctness I shall, first, treat of the grandeur or sublimity m exteinal 
objects themselves, which will employ the rest 01 this lecture, and, 
afterwards, of the description of such objects, or, of what is calle 
the sublime in writing, which shall be the subject of a Allowing 
lecture. 1 distinguish these two things from one another, the gran¬ 
deur of the objects themselves when they are presented to the eye, 
and the description of that grandeur in discourse or writing; though 
most critics, inaccurately I think, blend them together; and I con¬ 
sider grandeur and sublimity as terms synonymous, or nearly so 
If there be any distinction between them, it arises from sublimity - 
expressing grandeur in its highest degree. 

It is not easy to describe, in words, the precise impression which 
great and sublime objects make upon us, when we behold them , but 
every one has a conception of it. It produces a sort of internal ele¬ 
vation and expansion ; it raises the mind much above its ordinary 
state, and fills it with a degree of wonder and astonishment, which it 
cannot well express. The emotion is certainly delightful; but it is 
altogether of the serious kind; a degree of awful ness and solem¬ 
nity, even approaching to severity, commonly attends it when at its 
height; very distinguishable from the more gay and brisk emotion 

raised by beautiful objects. . , , , 

The simplest form of external grandeur appears m the vast and 
boundless prospects presented to us by nature ; such as wide extend¬ 
ed plains, to which the eye can see no limits; the firmament oi 
heaven: or the boundless expanse of the ocean. All vastness pro¬ 
duces the impression of sublimity. It is to be remarked, however, 
that space extended in length, makes not so strong an impression 
as height or depth. Though a boundless plain be a grand object, 
vet a high mountain, to which we look up, or an awful precipice 01 
tower whence we look down on the objects which lie below, is still 
more so. The excessive grandeur of the firmament arises from its 
height joined to its boundless extent; and that of the ocean, not 
from its extent alone, but from the perpetual motion and irresistible 
force of that mass of waters. Wherever space is concerned, it is 
clear that amplitude or greatness of extent, in one dimension or 
other, is necessary to grandeur. Remove all bounds from any ob¬ 
ject and you presently render it sublime. Hence infinite space, 
endless numbers, and eternal duration, fill the mind with great ideas. 

From this some have imagined, that vastness, or amplitude of ex¬ 
tent, is the foundation of all sublimity. But I cannot be of this 
opinion, because many objects appear sublime which have no rela¬ 
tion to space at all. Such, for instance, is great loudness of sound. 
The burst of thunder or o f cannon, the roaring of winds, the shout- 

* See a Philosophical Inquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and 
BeautifulDr. Gerard on Taste, section ii.Elements of Criticism, chap. iv. 





LBCT. III.] 


SUBLIMITY li\ OBJECTS. 


33 


mg of multitudes, the sound of vast cataracts of water, are all 
incontestably grand objects. “ I heard the voice of a great multi¬ 
tude, as the sound of many waters, and of mighty thunderings, 
“ saying, Allelujah.” In general we may observe, that great power 
and strength exerted, always raise sublime ideas ; and perhaps the 
most copious source of these is derived from this quarter. Hence 
the grandeur of earthquakes and burning mountains ; of great 
conflagrations; of the stormy ocean, and overflowing waters; of 
tempests of wind; of thunder and lightning; and of all the uncom¬ 
mon violence of the elements. Nothing is more sublime than 
mighty power and strength. A stream that runs within its banks, is 
a beautiful object, but when it rushes down with the impetuosity and 
noise of a torrent, it presently becomes a sublime one. From lions 
and other animals of strength, are drawn sublime comparisons in 
poets. A race-horse is looked upon with pleasure ; but it is the 
war-horse, “ whose neck is clothed with thunder,” that carries gran¬ 
deur in its idea. The engagement of two great armies, as it is the 
highest exertion of human might, combines a variety of sources of 
the sublime ; and has accordingly been always considered as one of 
the most striking and magnificent spectacles that can be either pre¬ 
sented to the eye, or exhibited to the imagination in description. 

For the farther illustration of this subject, it is proper to remark, 
that all ideas of the solemn and awful kind, and even bordering on 
the terrible, tend greatly to assist the sublime; such as darkness, 
solitude, and silence. What are the scenes of nature that elevate 
the mind in the highest degree, and produce the sublime sensation ? 
Not the gay landscape, the flowery field, or the flourishing city; but 
the hoary mountain, and the solitary lake ; the aged forest, and the 
torrent falling over the rock. Hence,too, night-scenes are common¬ 
ly the most sublime. The firmament when filled with stars, scattered 
in such vast numbers, and with such magnificent profusion, strikes the 
imagination with a more awful grandeur, than when we view it en¬ 
lightened by all the splendour of the sun. The deep sound of a great 
bell, or the striking of a great clock, are at any time grand; but when 
heard amid the silence and stillness of the night, they become doub¬ 
ly so. Darkness is very commonly applied for adding sublimity to 
all our ideas of the Deity. “He maketh darkness his pavilion; he. 
“ dwelleth in the thick cloud.” So Milton: 

.How oft, amidst 

Thick clouds and dark, does heaven’s all-ruling Sire 
Choose to reside, his glory unobscur’d, 

And with the majesty of darkness round 

Circles his throne. Book II. 263. 

Observe, with how much art Virgil has introduced all those ideas of 
silence, vacuity, and darkness, when he is going to introduce his hero 
to the infernal regions, and to disclose the secrets of the great deep. 

Dii, quibus imperium est animarum, umbrseque silentes, 

Et Chaos, et Phlegethon, loca nocte silentia late, 

Sit mihi fas audita loqui; sit numine vestro 
Pandere res altd terr& et caligine mersas. 

Fhant obscuri. sold sub nocte. per umbram, 

•5 




34 


SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. 


[lect. iii. 


Pet(ju6 dorxios Ditis vacuos, ct inania regna , 

Quale per incertam lunam, sub luce malign^ 

Est iter in Sylvis.* 

These passages I quote at present, not so much-as instances of sub¬ 
lime writing, though in themselves they truly are so, as to show, by 
the effect of them, that the objects which they present to us, belong 

to the class of sublime ones. , 

Obscurity, we are farther to remark, is not unfavourable to the sub¬ 
lime. Though it render the object indistinct, the impression, how¬ 
ever may be great; for as an ingenious author has well observed, 
it is one thing to make an idea clear, and another to make it affect¬ 
ing to the imagination ; and the imagination may be strongly affect¬ 
ed, and, in fact, often is so, by objects of which we have no clear 
conception. Thus we see, that almost all the descriptions given us 
of the appearances of supernatural beings, carry some sublimity, 
though the conceptions which they afford us be confused and indis¬ 
tinct Their sublimity arises from the ideas, which they always 
convey, of superior power and might, joined with an awful obscuri¬ 
ty. We may see this fully exemplified in the following noble pas¬ 
sage of the book of Job. “In thoughts from the visions of the 
« night, when deep sleep falleth upon men, fear came upon me, and 
“ trembling, which made all my bones to shake. Then a spirit 
“ passed before my face; the hair of my flesh stood up: it stood 
«still; but I could not discern the form thereof; an image was 
“ before mine eyes; there was silence ; and I heard a voice—Shall 
“mortal man be more just than God ?”t (Job iv. 15.) No ideas, it is 
plain, are so sublime as those taken from the Supreme Being ; the 
most unknown, but the greatest of all objects; the infinity of whose 
nature, and the eternity of whose duration, joined with the omnipo¬ 
tence of his power, though they surpass our conceptions, yet exalt 


* Ye subterranean gods, whose awful sway 
The gliding ghosts and silent shades obey : 

O Chaos, hear ! and Phlegethon profound ! 

Whose solemn empire stretches wide around : 

Give me, ye great tremendous powers ! to tell 
Of scenes and wonders in the depths of hell} 

Give me your mighty secrets to display, 

From those black realms of darkness to the day. MTT * 

Obscure they went; through dreary shades that led 
Along the waste dominions of the dead ; 

As wander travellers in woods by night, 

By the moon’s doubtful and malignant light, dryden. 

f The picture which Lucretius has drawn of the dominion of superstition over 
mankind, representing it as a portentous spectre showing its head from the clouds 
and dismaying the whole human race with its countenance, together with the mag¬ 
nanimity of Epicurus in raising himself up against it, carries all the grandeur of a 
sublime, obscure, and awful image. 

Humana ante oculos foede cum vita jacerct 
In terris, oppressa gravi sub religione, 

Quae caput coeli regionibus ostendebat, 

Horribili super aspectu mortalibus instans, 

Primum Graius homo mortales tollere contra 
Est oculos ansus. 






X.ECT. III.] 


SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. 


35 


them to the highest. In general, all objects that are greatly raised 
above us, or far removed from us, either in space or in time, are apt 
to strike us as great. Our viewing them, as through the mist of 
distance or antiquity, is favourable to the impressions of their subli¬ 
mity. 

As obscurity, so disorder too, is very compatible with grandeur ; 
nay, frequently heightens it. Few things that are strictly regular 
and methodical, appear sublime. We see the limits on every side; 
we feel ourselves confined ; there is no room for the mind’s exerting 
any great effort,. Exact proportion of parts, though it enters often 
into the beautiful, is much disregarded in the sublime. A great 
mass of rocks, thrown together by the hand of nature with wildness 
and confusion, strike the mind with more grandeur, than if they had 
been adjusted to one another with the most accurate symmetry. 

In the feeble attempts, which human art can make towards produ¬ 
cing grand objects, (feeble, I mean, in comparison with the powers 
of nature,) greatness of dimensions always constitutes a principal 
part. No pile of building can convey any idea of sublimity, unless 
it be ample and lofty. There is too, in architecture, what is called 
greatness of manner; which seems chiefly to arise, from presenting 
the object to us in one full point of view; so that it shall make its 
impression whole, entire, and undivided upon the mind. A Gothic 
cathedral raises ideas of grandeur in our minds, by its size, its height, 
its awful obscurity, its strength, its antiquity, and its durability. 

There still remains to be mentioned one class of sublime objects, 
which may be called the moral, or sentimental sublime; arising 
from certain exertions of the human mind; from certain affections, 
and actions, of our fellow-creatures. These will be found to be all, 
or chiefly, of that class, which comes under the name of magnanimi¬ 
ty or heroism: and they produce an effect extremely similar to 
what is produced by the view of grand objects in nature; filling the 
mind with admiration, and elevating it above itself. A noted in¬ 
stance of this, quoted by all the French critics, is the celebrated 
Qu’il Mourut of Corneille, in the tragedy of Horace. In the fa¬ 
mous combat between the Horatii and the Curiatii, the old Horatius 
being informed that two of his sons are slain, and that the third had 
betaken himself to flight, at first will not believe the report; but be¬ 
ing thoroughly assured of the fact, is fired with all the sentiments of 
high honour and indignation at this supposed unworthy behaviour 
of his surviving son. He is reminded, that his son stood alone 
against three, and asked what he wished him to have done? 
“To have died,” he answers. In the same manner Porus, taken 
prisoner by Alexander, after a gallant defence, and asked how 
he wished to be treated ? answering, “ Like a king;” and Cee- 
sar chiding the pilot who was afraid to set out with him in the 
storm,“Quid times? Caesarem vehis;”are good instances of this 
sentimental sublime. Wherever, in some critical and high situation, 
we behold a man uncommonly intrepid, and resting upon himself; 
superior to passion and to fear; animated by some great principle 


SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. 


[lect.iii. 


3 a 

to the contempt of popular opinion, of selfish interest, of dangers, 
or of death ; there we are struck with a sense of the sublime.* 

High virtue is the most natural and fertile ^source ol this moral 
sublimity. However, on some occasions, where virtue either has 
no place, or is but imperfectly displayed, yet it extraordinary vigoui 
and force of mind be discovered, we are not insensible to a de¬ 
gree of grandeur in the character; and from the splendid conqueror 
or the daring conspirator, whom we are far from approving, we 
cannot withhold our admiration.! 

I have now enumerated a variety of instances, both in inanimate 
objects and in human life, wherein the sublime appears. In all 
these instances, the emotion raised in use is of the same Mnd, although 
the objects that produce the emotion be of widely different kinds. 

A question next arises, whether we are able to discover some one 
fundamental quality in which all these different objects agree, and 
which is the cause of their producing an emotion of the same na¬ 
ture in our minds ? V arious hypotheses have been formed concern¬ 
ing this; but, as far as appears to me, hitherto unsatisfactory.. Some 
have imagined that amplitude, or great extent, joined with simplici¬ 
ty, is either immediately, or remotely, the fundamental quality of 
whatever is sublime} but we have seen that amplitude is confined 
to one species ol sublime objects, and cannot, without violent strain- 

* The sublime, in natural and in moral objects, is brought before us in one 
view, and compared together, in the following beautiful passage of Akenside s 
Pleasures of the Imagination : 

Look then abroad through nature to the range 
Of planets, suns, and adamantine spheres, 

Wheeling, unshaken, thro’ the void immense ; 

And speak, O man! does this capacious scene, 

With half that kindling majesty dilate 
Thy strong conception, as when Brutus rose, 

Refulgent, from the stroke of Csesar’s fate, 

Amid the crowd of patriots ; and his arm 
Aloft extending, like eternal Jove, 

When guilt brings down the thunder, call’d aloud 
On Tally’s name, and shook his crimson steel, 

And bade the father of his country hail ? 

For, lo! the tyrant prostrate on the dust, 

And Rome again is free. Rook I. 

t Silius ltalicus has studied to give an august idea of Hannibal, by representing him 
as surrounded with all his victories, in the place of guards. One who had formed a 
design of assassinating him in the midst of a feast, is thus addressed : 

Fallit te, mensas, inter quod credis inermem ; 

Tot bellis qusesita viro, tot ccedibus, armat 
Majestas aeterna ducem. Si admoveris ora 
Cannas et Trebiam ante oculos, Trasymenaque busta 
Et Pauli stare ingentem miraberis umbram. 

A thought somewhat of the same nature occurs in a French author: “II se 
it ca che mais sa reputation le decouvre ; II marche sans suite sans Equipage ; 
“ mais chacun, dans son esprit, le met sur un char de triomphe. On compte en le 
“voyant, les ennemis qu’il a vaincus, non pas les serviteurs qui le suivent. Tout 
“ seul qu’il est, on se figure, autour de lui, ses vertus, et ses victoires, qui 1’accom- 
« p a o-nent. Moins il est superbe, plus il devient venerable.” Oraison funebre de 
M. de Turenne, par M. Flechier. Both these passages are splendid, rather than 
sublime. In the first, there, is a want of justness in the thought: in the second, 
of simplicity in the expression. 



lect. iii.] SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. S 7 

ing be applied to them all. The author of “ a Philosophical In- 
“ quiry into the origin of our ideas of the sublime and beautiful,”* 
to whom we are indebted for several ingenious and original thoughts 
upon this subject, proposes a formal theory upon this foundation, 
that terror is the source of the sublime, and that no objects have 
this character, but such as produce impressions of pain and danger. 
It is indeed true, that many terrible objects are highly sublime ; and 
that grandeur does not refuse an alliance with the idea of danger. 
But though this is very properly illustrated by the author, (many of 
whose sentiments on that head I have adopted,) yet he seems to 
stretch his theory too far, when he represents the sublime as con¬ 
sisting wholly in modes of danger, or of pain. For the proper 
sensation of sublimity appears to be distinguishable from the sen¬ 
sation of either of these ; and on several occasions, to be entirely 
separated from them. In many grand objects, there is no coinci¬ 
dence with terror at all; as in the magnificent prospect of wide 
extended plains, and of the starry firmament; or in the moral dis¬ 
positions and sentiments, which we view with high admiration ; and 
in many painful and terrible objects also, it is clear there is no sort 
of grandeur. The amputation of a limb, or the bite of a snake, 
are exceedingly terrible ; but are destitute of all claim whatever to 
sublimity. I am inclined to think, that mighty force or power, 
whether accompanied with terror or not, whether employed in pro¬ 
tecting, or in alarming us, has a better title, than any thing that has 
yet been mentioned, to be the fundamental quality of the sublime ; 
as, after the review which we have taken, there does not occur to 
me any sublime object, into the idea of which, power, strength, and 
force, either enter not directly, or are not at least intimately asso¬ 
ciated with the idea, by leading our thoughts to some astonishing 
power as concerned in the production of the object. However, I 
do not insist upon this as sufficient to found a general theory : it is 
enough, to have given this view of the nature and different kinds of 
sublime objects ; by which I hope to have laid a proper foundation 
for discussing, with greater accuracy, the sublime in writing and 
composition. 

* Mr. Burke. 


QUESTIONS. 


How are taste, criticism, and genius, 
currently employed? What therefore 
is here necessary ? What is true criti¬ 
cism ; what object does it propose ; and 
how does it proceed? Of the rules of 
criticism, what is remarked ? On the 
observation of what beauties is criti¬ 
cism founded ? How is this illustrated 
from Aristotle’s rules concerning the 
unity of action in dramatic and epic 
composition? Of such observations, 


what is remarked ? Why may a mas¬ 
terly genius untaught, compose agree¬ 
ably to the most important rules of 
criticism? What illustration is given? 
Why is this no argument against the 
usefulness of criticism as an art ? As 
no observations or rules can supply the 
defects of genius, or inspire it where it 
is wanting, what are their advantages ? 
For what are critical rules chiefly de¬ 
signed ? For what must we look to 





B7 a 


QUESTIONS. 


nature ? What advantage do we de¬ 
rive from what has been said? How 
have critics been represented ? Why 
are not such prefaces calculated to 
give a very favourable idea of the 
genius of the author ? Upon what sup¬ 
position do the declamations against 
criticism commonly proceed? How 
does it appear that this is not true? 
How is this illustrated ? Why will the 
number of incompetent critics always 
be great; and what follows ? What 
more plausible objection may be formed 
against criticism? According to the 
principles laid down in the last lecture, 
to whom must the last appeal in every 
work of taste be made; and why? 
With respect to this, what is observed ? 
How is this observation illustrated ? In 
such cases, of the public, and of true 
criticism, what is said? The plays of 
Shakspeare, as dramatic compositions, 
contain the grossest violations of the 
Jaws of criticism; why then are they 
admired ? With what, in his writings, 
are we displeased; but in what does 
lie surpass all other writers? What 
does our author next proceed to ex¬ 
plain ? How do taste and genius differ ? 
How is this difference illustrated ? 
What does genius, therefore, deserve 
to be considered; and what does it im¬ 
port? Which forms the critic ; and 
which the poet and orator? On the 
common acceptation of the word genius, 
what is it proper to observe; and what 
is it used to signify ? How is this illus¬ 
trated ? Whence is this talent for ex¬ 
celling received? Of the effect of art 
and study, what is remarked ? How is 
the remark illustrated, that genius is 
more limited in its sphere of operation 
than taste ? What is said of a universal 
genius; and why ? Why is this remark 
here made ? As a genius for the fine 
arts supposes taste, what is clear? 
How is this illustrated, in reference to 
a poet or an orator ? What remark fol¬ 
lows, and when is this the case? Of 
the writings of Homer and Shakspeare, 
as proofs of this observation, what is 
said ? As all human perfection is limit¬ 
ed, what, in all probability, is a law of 
our nature? Having explained the 
nature of taste, &'c. what, are we next 
to consider ? How extensive is the field 
that is here opened to us ? Why need 
not all these be examined fully ? What 
is all that our author proposes? Who 


[lect. in. 

was the first that attempted a regular 
inquiry into the sources of the pleasures 
of taste; and under what heads has 
he reduced them ? Of his speculations 
on this subject what is remarked ; and 
of what has he the merit ? Why have 
not very considerable advances been 
made since his time, in this part of 
philosophical criticism ? What is a very 
difficult task; and when do we find 
ourselves at a loss ? How is this illus¬ 
trated ? Of the efficient and final cause 
of these sensations, what is observed; 
and, on entering on this subject, what 
can we not avoid ? What remark fol¬ 
lows? Without what might the neces¬ 
sary purposes of life have been abun¬ 
dantly answered? Of this additional 
embellishment and glory, what is ob¬ 
served? By whom, and in what lan¬ 
guage, has this thought been happily 
preserved ? 

With what does our author begin; 
and why does he propose to treat it at 
some length? What is the order in 
which he proposes to treat it ? What 
two things does our author distinguish; 
and what does he consider synonimous 
terms? If there be any distinction 
between them, whence does it arise ? 
What is it not easy to describe in 
words? What effect does it produce? 
What is the nature of the emotion that 
it produces; and from what is this 
very distinguishable? In what does 
the simplest form of external grandeur 
appear? What examples are given? 
Though all vastness produces the im¬ 
pression of sublimity, yet, what is to be 
remarked? How is this illustrated? 
Whence arises the excessive grandeur 
of the firmament; and of the ocean? 
Wherever space is concerned, what is 
evident ? How is this illustrated; and 
hence, what follows ? From this, what 
have some imagined? Why is not our 
author of this opinion? What are in¬ 
contestably grand objects? What il¬ 
lustration is given? In general, what 
may we observe; and hence, what fol¬ 
lows ? When is a stream of water beau¬ 
tiful ; and when sublime ? From what 
animals do we draw sublime compari¬ 
sons ? What remark follows ? How has 
the engagement of two great armies 
always been considered; and why? 
Farther to illustrate this subject, what 
is it proper to remark ? “ What are the 
scenes of nature, that, elevate the mind 





QUESTIONS. 


37 6 


LECT. IV.] 

in the highest degree, and produce the 
sublime sensation?” Hence, what fol¬ 
lows; and what illustration is given? 
For what purpose is • darkness very 
commonly applied ? What illustrations 
are given from David, from Milton, 
and from Virgil? For what are these 
passages here quoted? From what ob¬ 
servation does it appear that obscurity 
is not conformable to the sublime? 
Thus, in the descriptions of the ap¬ 
pearances of supernatural beings, what 
do we see? From what does their sub¬ 
limity arise ? In what passage may we 
see this fully exemplified ? Why are 
ideas taken from the Supreme Being 
more sublime than any others? In 
general, what objects strike us as great; 
and what is favourable to the impres¬ 
sions of their sublimity? How does it 
appear that disorder frequently heigh¬ 
tens grandeur? Of exact proportion 
of parts, what is said? How is this il¬ 
lustrated from an irregular mass of 
rocks? In the attempts which human 
art can make towards producing the 
sublime, what always constitutes a 
principal part ? From what does great¬ 
ness of manner, in architecture, seem 
chiefly to arise? By what does a Gothic 
cathedral raise ideas of grandeur in the 
mind? What class of sublime objects 
still remain to be mentioned; and from 
what do they arise ? Under what 
names do they chiefly fall; and what 
effect do they produce ? Repeat the 
instances given from Corneille, from 
Porus and Alexander, and from Caesar 
and the pilot. Where are we struck 
with a sense of the sublime ? Repeat 
the passage from Akenside. What is 
the most natural source of this sub¬ 
limity? On what occasions, when virtue 
either has no place, or is imperfectly 


displayed, can we not withhold our ad¬ 
miration ? Of the emotion raised in the 
variety of instances enumerated, what 
is said? What question next arises? 
Wliat have some imagined to be the 
fundamental quality of the sublime; 
but what have we seen? What theory 
is proposed by Mr. Burke; what is said 
of it; and why ? In what grand ob¬ 
jects, or moral dispositions and senti¬ 
ments, is there no coincidence with 
terror; and in what terrible objects, 
also, is there no sort of grandeur ? 
What is our author inclined to think is 
the fundamental quality of the sub¬ 
lime ; and for what reason ? 


ANALYSIS. 

1. Criticism. 

a. The definition of Criticism. 

b. The nature and object of Criti¬ 

cism. 

c. Objections to it considered. 

2. Genius. 

a. The distinction between Taste 

and Genius. 

b. The nature of Genius. 

c. The connexion between Taste 

and Genius. 

3. The pleasures of Taste. 

a. Mr. Addison’s Theory. 

b. The sources of the pleasures of 

Taste. 

4. Grandeur, or Sublimity, in external 

objects. 

A. The nature of Sublimity. 

B. The sources of Sublimity. 

c. Solemn and awful objects. 

D. Obscurity. 

E. Disorder. 

F. Moral Sublimity. 

g. The foundation of the Sublime. 


LECTURE IV. 


THE SUBLIME IN WRITING. 

Having treated of grandeur or sublimity in external objects, the 
way seems now to be cleared, for treating, with more advantage, of 
the descriptions of such objects ; or, of what is called the sublime in 
writing. Though I may appear early to enter on the consideration 
of this subject; vet, as the sublime is a species of writing which de- 
F 










38 


SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 


[lect. IV, 


pends less than any other on the artificial embellishments of rheto¬ 
ric, it may be examined with as much propriety here, as in any sub¬ 
sequent part of the lectures. 

Many critical terms have unfortunately been employed in a sense 
too loose and vague; none more so, than that of the sublime. 
Every one is acquainted with the character of Caesar’s Commenta¬ 
ries, and of the style in which they are written : a style remarkably 
pure, simple, and elegant; but the most remote from the sublime 
of any of the classical authors. Yet this author has a German cri tic, 
Johannes Gulielmus Bergerus, who wrote no longer ago than the 
year 1720, pitched upon as the perfect model of the sublime, and has 
composed a quarto volume, entitled De naturalipulchritudine Ora- 
tionis; the express intention of which is to show, that Caesar’s Com¬ 
mentaries contain the most complete exemplification of all Longi¬ 
nus’s rules relating to sublime writing. This I mention as a strong 
proof of the confused ideas which have prevailed, concerning this 
subject. The true sense of sublime writing, undoubtedly, is such a 
description of objects, or exhibition of sentiments, which are in 
themselves of a sublime nature, as shall give us strong impressions 
of them. But there is another very indefinite, and therefore very- 
improper, sense, which has been too often put upon it; when it is 
applied to signify any remarkable and distinguishing excellency of 
composition ; whether it raise in us the ideas of grandeur, or those 
of gentleness, elegance, or any other sort of beauty. In this sense, 
Caesar’s Commentaries may,indeed, be termed sublime, and so may 
many sonnets, pastorals, and love elegies, as well as Homer’s Iliad. 
But this evidently confounds the use of words, and marks no one 
species, or character, of composition whatever. 

I am sorry to be obliged to observe, that the sublime is too often 
used in this last and improper sense, by the celebrated critic Longi¬ 
nus, in his treatise on this subject. He sets out, indeed, with des¬ 
cribing it in its just and proper meaning; as something that elevates 
the mind above itself, and fills it with high conceptions, and a noble 
pride. But from this view of it he frequently departs; and substi¬ 
tutes in the place of it, whatever, in any strain of composition, pleases 
highly. Thus, many of the passages which he produces as instances 
of the sublime, are merely elegant, without having the most distant 
relation to proper sublimity; witness Sappho’s famous ode, on which 
he descants at considerable length. He points out five sources of 
the sublime. The first is boldness or grandeur in the thoughts; 
the second is, the pathetic; the third, the proper application of 
figures ; the fourth, the use of tropes and beautiful expressions ; the 
fifth, musical structure and arrangement of words. This is the plan 
of one who was writing a treatise of rhetoric, or of the beauties of 
writing in general; not of the sublime in particular. For of these 
five heads, only the two first have any peculiar relation to the sub¬ 
lime ; boldness and grandeur in the thoughts, and in some instances, 
the pathetic, or strong exertions of passion; the other three, tropes, 
figures, and musical arrangement, have no more relation to the 
sublime, than to other kinds of good writing; perhaps less to the 


X.ECT. IV.] 


SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 


39 


sublime, than to any other species whatever; because it requires 
less the assistance of ornament. From this it appears, that clear and 
precise ideas on this head are not to be expected from that writer. 
I would not, however, be understood, as if I meant, by this censure, 
to represent his treatise as of small value. I know no critic, ancient 
or modern, that discovers a more lively relish of the beauties of fine 
writing, than Longinus ; and he has also the merit of being himself 
an excellent, and in several passages, a truly sublime, writer. But 
as his work has been generally considered as a standard on this sub¬ 
ject, it was incumbent on me to give my opinion concerning the 
benefit to be derived from it. It deserves to be consulted, not so 
much for distinct instruction concerning the sublime, as for excellent 
general ideas concerning beauty in writing. 

I return now to the proper and natural idea of the sublime in 
composition. The foundation of it must always be laid in the na¬ 
ture of the object described. Unless it be such an object as, if pre¬ 
sented to our eyes, if exhibited to us in reality, would raise ideas of 
that elevating, that awful and magnificent kind, which we call sub¬ 
lime ; the description, however finely drawn, is not entitled to come 
under this class. This excludes all objects that are merely beautiful, 
gay, or elegant. In the next place, the object must not only, in it¬ 
self, be sublime, but it must be set before us in such a light as is most 
proper to give us a clear and full impression of it; it must be des¬ 
cribed with strength, with conciseness, and simplicity. This depends, 
principally, upon the lively impression which the poet, or orator, has 
of the object which he exhibits ; and upon his being deeply affected, 
and warmed, by the sublime idea which he would convey. If his ovra 
feeling be languid, he can never inspire us with any strong emotion. 
Instances, which are extremely necessary on this subject, will clearly 
show the importance of all the requisites which I have just now 
mentioned. 

It is, generally speaking, among the most ancient authors, that 
we are to look for the most striking instances of the sublime. I am 
inclined to think that the early ages of the world, and the rude unim¬ 
proved state of society, are peculiarly favourable to the strong emo¬ 
tions of sublimity. The genius of men is then much turned to admi¬ 
ration and astonishment. Meeting with many objects, to them new 
and strange, their imagination is kept glowing, and their passions are 
often raised to the utmost. They think, and express themselves 
boldly, and without restraint. In the progress of society, the genius 
and manners of men undergo a change more favourable to accuracy, 
than to strength or sublimity. 

Of all writings, ancient or modern, the sacred Scriptures afford us 
the highest instances of the sublime. The descriptions of the Deity, 
in them, are wonderfully noble; both from the grandeur of the ob¬ 
ject and the manner of representing it. What an assemblage, for 
instance, of awful and sublime ideas is presented to us, in that pas¬ 
sage of the xviiith psalm, where an appearance of the Almighty is 
described : “ In my distress I called upon the Lord; he heard my 

ee voice out of his temple, and my cry came before him. Then, 


40 


SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. [lect.it. 


“ the earth shook and trembled ; the foundations also of the hills 
C( were moved; because he was wroth. He bowed the heavens, and 
“ came down, and darkness was under his feet; and he did ride up- 
“ on a Cherub, and did fly ; yea, he did fly upon tfie wings of the 
“ wind He made darkness his secret place ; his pavilion round 
“ about him were dark waters, and thick clouds of the sky.” Here, 
agreeably to the principles established in the last lecture, we see 
with what propriety and success the circumstances of darkness and 
terror are applied for heightening the sublime. So, also, the pro¬ 
phet Habakkuk, in a similar passage: “ He stood, and measured 
“the earth : he beheld, and drove asunder the nations. The ever- 
“ lasting mountains were scattered ; the perpetual hills did how; 
“ his ways are everlasting. The mountains saw thee ; and they 
“ trembled. The overflowing of the water passed by. The deep 
u uttered his voice, and lifted up his hands on high.” 

The noted instance given by Longinus, from Moses, “ God said, 
“ let there be light; and there was light;” is not liable to the censure 
which I passed on some of his instances, of being foreign to the 
subject. It belongs to the true sublime; and the sublimity of it 
arises from the strong conception it gives, of an exertion of power, 
producing its effect with the utmost speed and facility. A thought 
of the same kind is magnificently amplified in the following passage 
of Isaiah : (chap. xliv. 24, 21, 28.) “Thus saith the Lord, thy Re- 
“ deemer, and he that formed thee from the womb: I am the Lord 
“ that maketh all things, that stretcheth forth the heavens alone, that 
“ spreadeth abroad the earth by myself—that saith to the deep, be 
“ dry, and l will dry up thy rivers ; that saith of Cyrus, he is my 
“ shepherd, and shall perform all my pleasure; even, saying to Je- 
“ rusalem, thou shalt be built; and to the temple, thy foundation 
“ shall be laid.” There is a passage in the psalms, which deserves 
to be mentioned under this head: “ God,” says the psalmist, “ stil- 
“leth the noise of the seas, the noise of their waves, and the tu- 
“ mults of the people.” The joining together two such grand ob¬ 
jects, as the raging of the waters, and the tumults of the people, 
between which there is so much resemblance as to form a very na¬ 
tural association in the fancy, and the representing them both as sub¬ 
ject, at one moment, to the command of God, produces a noble ef¬ 
fect. 

Homer is a poet, who, in all ages, and by all critics, has been 
greatly admired for sublimity; and he owes much of his grandeur 
to that native and unaffected simplicity which characterizes his man¬ 
ner. His - descriptions of hosts engaging; the animation, the fire, 
and rapidity, which he throws into his battles, present to every reader 
of the Iliad, frequent instances of sublime writing. His introduc¬ 
tion of the gods, tends often to heighten, in a high degree, the ma¬ 
jesty of his warlike scenes. Hence Longinus bestows such high and 
just commendations on that passage, in the xvth book of the Iliad, 
where Neptune, when preparing to issue forth into the engagement, 
is described as shaking the mountains with his steps, and driving 
his chariot along the ocean. Minerva, arming herself for fight in 


LECT. IV .} 


41 


SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 

the vth book ; and Apollo, in the xvth, leading on the Troians, 
and flashing terror with his ./Egis on the face of the Greeks, are simi- 
ar instances of great sublimity added to the description of battles, 
by the appearances of those celestial beings. In the xxth book, 
where all the gods take part in the engagement, according as they 
severally favour either the Grecians or the Trojans, the poet’s ge¬ 
nius is signally displayed, and the description rises into the most 
awlui magnificence. All nature is represented as in commotion. 
Jupiter thunders in the heavens; Neptune strikes the earth with 
his trident; the ships, the city, and the mountains shake; the earth 
trembles to its centre ; Pluto starts from his throne, in dread lest 
the secrets of the infernal region should be laid open to the view of 
mortals. The passage is worthy of being inserted. 

The works of Ossian (as I have elsevvhere shown) abound with 

AwTstg s-rec pxt8' opxihov 'O\v/ui7r;ot il\oQov cttSguv, 

*nero S’ E£tc Xuoccoof 0LUi S’ ’aSjj'vj),— 

Aut S’ ’A§#; eTe^a>()ev, i^i/uvH \xiKxm Jtoj, — 

"tie THr S£jUpa>Tfi>S? /UCtKXQiS QtOt OT^UVOVTiS , 

2ZufA@Ct\0V, it S’ a.VT0ti i^lSx gtiyVVVTI 
Awvov S' 7TctrHg XvS$»V Tg QttoV Tg 

T-^oQtV x’urug evt%9e UoiriiSxav trivet 
Tctittv czveigto-inv , o^ta>v t’ xintitd kx^hvx. 

TldvTic S' irtretovro 7roSts TrQ\v7riSx)Oi ' \Snt t 
K*/ x.O£u<pcti, T$a>a>v Ti vsu vmsc ’A •/jtlStt. 

’ ESSturtv S' CirtvtgQtv d'tu^ svt^m t ’AiiJWgvc, 

AtlT&C S’ (K 8t>0VX Ct KTOy KXt i*Xi‘ (U« 01 UTTggSg 

Tajictv xvxppS^ttt rito-uSxcDv ivoa-iy6av t 
Oinix St 8v»roi<rt n*i stQxvctToiat Qxvt(» 

^ZfXtgSxXi rat Tg ST/ygtf(T< 8io) Trip 

T orro? d^st ktuttoz ccqto Qia>v tpiSi ^vtiovrcev. - 

Iliad, xx. 47. &c. 


* But when the powers descending- swell’d the fig-lit, 
Then tumult rose, fierce rage, and pale affright: 
Now through the trembling shores Minerva calls, 
And now she thunders from the Grecian walls. 
Mars, hov’ring o’er his Troy, his terror shrouds 
In gloomy tempests, and a night of clouds ; 

Now through each Trojan heart he fury pours, 

With voice divine, from Ilion’s topmost towers.— 
Above, the sire of gods his thunder rolls, 

And peals on peals redoubled rend the poles; 
Beneath, stern Neptune shakes the solid ground, 

The forests wave, the mountains nod around ; 
Through all her summits tremble Ida’s woods, 

And from their sources boil her hundred floods: 
Troy’s turrets totter on the rocking plain, 

And the toss’d navies beat the heaving main. 

Deep in the dismal region of the dead, 

Th’ infernal monarch rear’d his horrid head, 

Leapt from his throne, lest Neptune’s arm should lay 
His dark dominions open to the day; 

And pour in light on Pluto’s drear abodes, 

Abhorr’d by men, and dreadful ev’n to gods. 

Such wars th’ immortals wage ; such horrors rend 
The world’s vast concave, when the gods contend. 

6 


POPR, 



42 


SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 


[lect. it. 


examples of the sublime. The subjects of which that author treats, 
and the manner in which he writes, are particularly favourable to it. 
He possesses all the plain and venerable manner of the ancient times. 
He deals in no superfluous or gaudy ornaments; but throws forth 
his images with a rapid conciseness, which enables them to strike the 
mind with the greatest force. Among poets of more polished times 
we are to look for the graces of correct writing, for just proportion 
of parts, and skilfully conducted narration. In the midst of smiling 
scenery and pleasurable themes, the gay and the beautiful will ap¬ 
pear, undoubtedly, to more advantage. But amidst the rude scenes 
of nature and of society, such as Ossian describes; amidst rocks 
and torrents, and whirlwinds and battles, dwells the sublime ; and 
naturally associates itself with that grave and solemn spirit which 
distinguishes the author of Fingal. “As autumn’s dark storms 
“ pour from two echoing hills, so toward each other approached the 
“ heroes. As two dark streams from high rocks meet and mix, and 
“ roar on the plain ; loud, rough, and dark, in battle met Lochlin 
“ and Inisfail: chief mixed his strokes with chief, and man with 
“ man. Steel clanging sounded on steel. Helmets are cleft on 
“ high: blood bursts, and smoke around. As the troubled noise 
“ of the ocean when roll the waves on high ; as the last peal of the 
“ thunder of heaven ; such is the noise of battle. The groan of 
“ the people spreads over the hills. It was like the thunder of night, 
“ when the cloud bursts on Cona, and a thousand ghosts shriek at 
“ once on the hollow wind.” Never were images of more awful 
sublimity employed to heighten the terror of battle. 

I have produced these instances, in order to demonstrate that 
conciseness and simplicity are essential to sublime writing. Sim¬ 
plicity I place in opposition to studied and profuse ornament: and 
conciseness, to superfluous expression. The reason why a defect, 
either in conciseness or simplicity, is hurtful in a peculiar manner 
to the sublime, I shall endeavour to explain. The emotion occa¬ 
sioned In the mind by some great or noble object, raises it consi¬ 
derably above its ordinary pitch. A sort of enthusiasm is produced, 
extremely agreeable while it lasts; but from which the mind is ten¬ 
ding every moment to fall down into its ordinary situation. Now, 
when an author has brought us, or is attempting to bring us, into 
this state; if he multiplies words unnecessarily; if he decks the sub¬ 
lime object which he presents to us, round and round, with glittering 
ornaments; nay, if he throws in any one decoration that sinks in the 
least below the capital image, that moment he alters the key ; he 
relaxes the tension of the mind; the strength of the feeling is emas¬ 
culated, the beautiful may remain, but the sublime is gone. When 
Julius Caesar said to the pilot who was afraid to put to sea with him 
in a storm, “ Quid times ? Caesarem vehiswe are struck with the 
daring magnanimity of one relying with such confidence on his cause 
and his fortune. These few words convey every thing necessary 
to give us the impression full. Lucan resolved to amplify and adorn 
the thought. Observe how every time he twists it round, it departs 
farther from the sublime, till it ends at last in tumid declamation 


XECT. IV.j 


SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 


49 


Sperne minas, inquit, pelagi, ventoque furenti 
Trade sinum: Italiam, si, coelo auctore, recusas, 

Me pete. Sola tibi causa ha^c est justa timoris 
Victorem non nusse tuum ; quem numina nunquam 
Destituent; de quo male tunc Fortuna meretur 
Cum post vota venit. Medias perrumpe procellas 
Tutelfi secure mea. Coeli iste f'retique 
Non puppis nostras labor est. Hanc Ceesare pressam 
A fluctu defendet onus ; nam proderit undis 
Ista ratis... .Quid tanta strage paratur 
Ignoras ? quaerit pelagi coelique tumultu 

Quid praestet fortuna mihi.* — fhars. v. 578. 

On account of the great importance of simplicity and concise¬ 
ness, I conceive rhyme, in English verse, to be, if not inconsistent 
with the sublime, at least very unfavourable to it. The constrained 
elegance of this kind of verse, and studied smoothness of the sounds, 
answering regularly to each other at the end of the line, though they 
be quite consistent with gentle emotions, yet weaken the native 
force of sublimity ; besides, that the superfluous words which the 
poet is often obliged to introduce in order to fill up the rhyme, tend 
farther to enfeeble it. Homer’s description of the nod of Jupiter, 
as shaking the heavens, has been admired, in all ages, as highly sub¬ 
lime. Literally translated, it runs thus: “He spoke, and bending 
“ his sable brows, gave the awful nod; while he shook the celestial 
“ locks of his immortal head, all Olympus was shaken.” Mr. Pope 
translates it thus : 

He spoke : and awful bends his sable brows, 

Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod. 

The stamp of fate, and sanction of a God. 

High heaven with trembling the dread signal took, 

And all Olympus to its centre shook. 

The image is spread out, and attempted to be beautified ; but it 
is,in truth, weakened. The third line—“The stamp of fate, and 
“ sanction of a God,” is merely expletive, and introduced for no 


* But Caesar still superior to distress, 

Fearless, and confident of sure success, 

Thus to the pilot loudThe seas despise, 

And the vain threat’ning of the noisy skies ; 
Though gods deny thee yon Ausonian strand, 

Yet go, I charge you, go, at my command. 

Thy ignorance alone can cause thy fears, 

Thou know’st not what a freight thy vessel bears * 
Thou know’st not I am he to whom ’tis given, 
Never to want the cave of watchful heaven. 
Obedient fortune waits my humble thrall, 

And always ready, comes before I call. 

Let winds and seas, loud wars at freedom wage, 
And waste upon themselves their empty rage ; 

A stronger, mightier daemon is thy friend, 

Thou, and thy bark, on Caesar’s fate depend. 
Thou stand’st amaz’d to view this dreadful scene, 
And wonder’st what the gods and fortune mean ) 
But artfully their bounties thus they raise, 

And from my danger arrogate new praise; 
Amidst the fears of death they bid me live, 

And still enhance what they are sure to give. 




ROWS 



44 


SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 


[lbct. ir. 


other reason but to fill up the rhyme; for it interrupts the descrip¬ 
tion, and clogs the image. For the same reason, out of mere com¬ 
pliance with the rhyme, Jupiter is represented as shaking his locks 
before he gives the nod ;—Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives 
“ the nod,” which is trifling, and without meaning: whereas, in the 
original, the hair of his head shaken, is the effect of his nod, and 
makes a happy picturesque circumstance in the description.* 

The boldness, freedom, and variety of our blank verse, is infinite¬ 
ly more favourable than rhyme, to all kinds of sublime poetry. The 
fullest proof of this is afforded by Milton ; an author whose genius 
led him eminently to the sublime. The whole first and second 
books of Paradise Lost, are continued instances of it. Take only, 
for an example, the following noted description of Satan, after his 
fall, appearing at the head of the infernal hosts : 

-He, above the rest, 

In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 

Stood like a tower ; his form had not yet lost 
All her original brightness, nor appear’d 
Less than archangel ruin’d ; and the excess 
‘ Of glory obscur’d: as when the sun new risen, 

Looks through the horizontal misty air, 

Shorn of his beams ; or, from behind the moon, 

In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds 
On half the nations, and with fear of change 
Perplexes monarclis. Darken’d so, yet shone 
Above them all th’ archangel.- 

Here concur a variety of sources of the sublime: the principal ob¬ 
ject eminently great; a high superior nature, fallen indeed, but erect¬ 
ing itself against distress ; the grandeur of the principal object 
heightened, by associating it with so noble an idea as that of the sun 
suffering an eclipse; this picture shaded with all those images of 
change and trouble, of darkness and terror, which coincide so finely 
with the sublime emotion; and the whole expressed in a style and 
versification, easy, natural, and simple, but magnificent. 

I have spoken of simplicity and conciseness, as essential to sublime 
writing. In my general description of it, I mentioned strength, as 
another necessary requisite. The strength of description arises, in 
a great measure, from a simple conciseness; but, it supposes also 
something more ; namely, a proper choice of circumstances in the 
description, so as to exhibit the object in its full and most striking 
point of view. For every object has several faces, so to speak, b}^ 
which it may be presented to us, according to the circumstances with 
which we surround it; and it will appear eminently sublime, or not, 
in proportion as all these circumstances are happily chosen, and of a 
sublime kind. Here lies the great art of the writer; and, indeed, 
the great difficulty of sublime description. If the description be 
too general, and divested of circumstances, the object appears in a 
faint light; it makes a feeble impression, or no impression at all, on 
the reader. At the same time, if any trivial or improper circum¬ 
stances are mingled, the whole is degraded. 


See Webb on the Beauties of Poetry. 





LECT. IV.] 


SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 


45 


A storm or tempest, for instance, is a sublime object in nature. 
But to render it sublime in description, it is not enough either to give 
us mere general expressions concerning the violence of the tempest, 
or to describe its common vulgar effects, in overthrowing trees and 
houses. It must be painted with such circumstances as fill the mind 
with great and awful ideas. This is very happily done by Virgil, in 
the following passage: 

Ipse Pater, media nimborum in nocte, coruscd 
Fulmina molitur dextrd; quo maxima motu 
Terra tremit; fugere ferae ; et mortalia corda 
Per gentes humilis stravit pavor : Ille flagranti 
Aut Atho, aut Rhodopen, aut alta Ceraunia telo 

Dejicit.*- ceor. i, 

Every circumstance in this noble description is the production of 
an imagination heated and astonished with the grandeur of the object. 
If there be any defect, it is in the words immediately following those 
1 have quoted: “ Ingeminant Austri, et densissimus imber ;” where 
the transition is made too hastily, I am afraid, from the preceding 
sublime images, to a thick shower, and the blowing of the south 
wind; and shows how difficult it frequently is to descend with grace, 
without seeming to fall. 

The high importance of the rule which I have been now giving, 
concerning the proper choice of circumstances, when description is 
meant to be sublime, seems to me not to have been sufficiently at- 
tended to. It has, however, such a foundation in nature, as renders 
the least deflexion from it fatal. When a writer is aiming at the 
beautiful only, his descriptions may have improprieties in them, and 
yet be beautiful still. Some trivial, or misjudged circumstances, can 
be overlooked by the reader; they make only the difference of more 
or less: the gay, or pleasing emotion, which he has raised, subsists 
still. But the case is quite different with the sublime. There, one 
trifling circumstance, one mean idea, is sufficient to destroy the whole 
charm. This is owing to the nature of the emotion aimed at by 
sublime description, which admits of no mediocrity, and cannot sub¬ 
sist in a middle state; but must either highly transport us, or, if un¬ 
successful in the execution, leave us greatly disgusted and displeased. 
We attempt to rise along with the writer; the imagination is awaken¬ 
ed, and put upon the stretch ; but it requires to be supported; and 
if, in the midst of its efforts, you desert it unexpectedly, down it 
comes with a painful shock. When Milton, in his battle of the 

* The father of the gods his glory shrouds, 

Involv’d in tempests, and a night of clouds ; 

And from the middle darkness flashing out, 

By fits he deals his fiery bolts about. 

Earth feels the motions of her angry God, i 
Her entrails tremble, and her mountains nod, > 

And flying beasts in forests seek abode. ) 

Deep horror seizes every human breast; 

Their pride is humbled, and their fears confest 
While he, from high, his rolling thunder throws, 

And fires the mountains with repeated blows; 

The rocks are from their old foundations rent, 

The winds redouble, and the rains augment 

G 


VRYDZX. 




SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 


[LECT. IV' 


46 

angels, decribes them as tearing up the mountains, and throwing 
them at one another: there are, in his description, as Mr Addison 
has observed, no circumstances but what are properly sublime. 

From their foundations loos’ning to and fro, 

They pluck’d the seated hills, with all their load, 

Rocks, waters, woods ; and by the shaggy tops 
Uplifting, bore them in their hands.- 

Whereas Claudian, in a fragment upon the wars of the giants, has 
contrived to render this idea of their throwing the mountains, which 
is in itself so grand, burlesque and ridiculous; by this single circum¬ 
stance, of one of his giants with the mountain Ida upon his shoulders, 
and a river which flowed from the mountain, running down along 
the giant’s back, as he held it up in that posture. There is a de¬ 
scription too in Virgil, which, I think, is censurable; though more 
slightly in this respect. It is that of the burning mountain Atna , a 
subject certainly very proper to be worked up by a poet into a sub- 
lime description : 

_Horrificis juxta tonat jEtna ruinis. 

Interdumque atram prorumpit ad atthera nubera, 

Turbine fumantem piceo, et candente favilla; 

Attollitque globos flammarum, et sidera lambit. 

Interdum scopulos, avulsaque viscera montis 
Erigit eructans, liquefactaque saxa sub auras 

Cum gemitu glomerat, fundoque exiestuat imo. in. o/ . 

Here, after several magnificent images, the poet concludes with per¬ 
sonifying the mountain under this figure, “ eructans viscera cum 
gemitu,” belching up its bowels with a groan ; which, by likening 
the mountain to a sick or drunk person, degrades the majesty of the 
description. It is to no purpose to tell us, that the poet here a - 
ludes to the fable of the giant Enceladus lying under mount Hhtna; 
and that he supposes his motions and tossings to have occasioned 
the fiery eruptions. He intended the description of a sublime ob¬ 
ject ; and the natural ideas, raised by a burning mountain, are infinite¬ 
ly more lofty, than the belehings of any giant, how huge soever, lhe 
debasing effect of the idea which is here presented, will a PP ea £! n a 
stronger light, by seeing what figure it makes in a poem of Sir Rich¬ 
ard Blackmore’s, who, through a monstrous perversity of taste, had 
chosen this for the capital circumstance in his description, and there¬ 
by (as Dr. Arbuthnot humourously observes, in his Treatise on the 
Art of Sinking,) had represented the mountain as in a fit of the cholic. 

JEtna, and all the burning mountains, find 
Their kindled stores with inbred storms of wind 


* The port capacious, and secure from wind, 

Is to the foot of thundering iEtna join’d. 

By turns a pitchy cloud she rolls on high, 

By turns hot embers from her entrails fly, 

And flakes of mounting flames that lick the sky, 

Oft from her bowels massy rocks are thrown, 

And shiver’d by the force, come piece-meal down. 

Oft liquid lakes of burning sulphur flow, 

Fed from the fiery springs that boil below. WEYDEN. 

In this translation of Dryden’s, the debasing circumstance to which I object in the 
original, is, with propriety, omitted. 






LECT. IV.] 


SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 


47 


Blown up to mge, and roaring out complain, 

As torn with inward gripes, and torturing pain ; 

Labouring, they cast their dreadful vomit round, 

And with their melted bowels spread the ground. 

Such instances show how much the sublime depends upon a just 
selection of circumstances; and with how great care every circum¬ 
stance must be avoided, which by bordering in the least upon the 
mean or even upon the gay or the trifling, alters the tone of the 
emotion. 

If it shall now be inquired, what are the proper sources of the 
sublime ? my answer is, that they are to be looked for every where 
in nature. It is not by hunting after tropes, and figures, and rhetori¬ 
cal assistances, that we can expect to produce it. No : it stands 
clear, for the most part, of these laboured refinements of art. It 
must come unsought, if it comes at all; and be the natural offspring 
of a strong imagination. 

Est Deus in nobis ; agitante calesciinus illo. 

Wherever a great and awful object is presented in nature, or a 
very magnanimous and exalted affection of the human mind is dis¬ 
played ; thence, if you can catch the impression strongly, and exhibit 
it warm and glowing, you may draw the sublime. These are its only 
proper sources. In judging of any striking beauty in composition, 
whether it is, or is not, to be referred to this class, we must attend to 
the nature of the emotion which it raises; and only, if it be of that 
elevating, solemn, and awful kind, which distinguishes this feeling, 
we can pronounce it sublime. 

From the account which I have given of the nature of the sub¬ 
lime, it clearly follows, that it is an emotion which can never be long 
protracted. The mind, by no force of genius, can be kept, for any 
considerable time, so far raised above its common tone; but will, of 
course, relax into its ordinary situation. Neither are the abilities of 
any human writer sufficient to furnish a long continuation of uninter¬ 
rupted sublime ideas. The utmost we can expect is, that this fire of 
imagination should sometimes flash upon us like lightning from 
heaven, and then disappear. In Homer and Milton, this effulgence 
of genius breaks forth more frequently , and with greater lustre, than 
in most authors. Shakspeare also rises often into the true sublime. 
But no author whatever is sublime throughout. Some indeed, 
t here are, who, by a strength and dignity in their conceptions, and 
a current of high ideas that runs through their whole composition, 
preserve the reader’s mind always in a tone nearly allied to the sub¬ 
lime; for which reason they may, in a limited sense, merit the name 
of continued sublime writers; and, in this class, we may justly place 
Demosthenes and Plato. 

As for what is called the sublime style, it is, for the most part, a 
very bad one; and has no relation, whatever, to the real sublime. 
Persons are apt to imagine, that magnificent words, accumulated 
epithets, and a certain swelling kind of expression, by rising above 
what is usual or vulgar, contributes to, or even forms, the sublime. 
Nothing can be more false. In all the instances of sublime writing, 


48 SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. D tECT ’ IV ‘ 

which 1 have given, nothing of ^e^Xhig ^'striking and sublime. 

part, clothe itself in a native dignity of 

c^of|^£- 

hi without exce^idn, X "tafa^rite^wTo SfecjTa 

“'A'S'SS* judgment »e - P», » •'■ « 

», 'uSSty «tL objeet, whichthe, .re to ctacnbw Mr. Add.«.u 
in his'Campaign. ha, fallen into an error of Una kmd, when about to 
describe the battle of Blenheim. 

But O mv muse! what numbers wilt thou find 
To sing the furious troops in battle join d . 

Methinks, I hear the drum’s tumultuous sound. 

The victor’s shouts, and dying groans, confound , ^c 

Introductions of this kind, are a forced attempt in a writer, to spur 
up himself, and his reader, when he finds his lmagmatiion begin to 
flao-. It is like taking artificial spirits in order to supply the want 
of such as are natural. By this observation, however, I do not mean 
?o pass a general censure on Mr. Addison’s Campaign which nr 
several places, is far from wanting merit; and m particular, the no¬ 
ted comparison of his hero to the angel who rides in the whirlwind 
and directs the storm, is a truly sublime image. 

The faults opposite to the sublime are chiefly two: tire frigid, and 
the bombast. The frigid consists, in degrading an object or senti¬ 
ment, which is sublime in itself, by our mean conception of it; or by 
Pur weak, low, and childish description of it This betrays entire 
absence, or at least great poverty of genius. Of this there are abun¬ 
dance of examples, and these commented upon with much humour, 
in the Treatise on the Art of Sinking, in Dean Swift s works; the in¬ 
stances taken chiefly from Sir Richard Blackmore. One of these, 
I had occasion already to give, in relation to mount Jitna and it 
were needless to produce any more. The bombast lies, in forcing 
an ordinary or trivial object outof its rank, and endeavourmg to raise 
it into the sublime; or, in attempting to exalt a sublime object be- 


LECT IV.] 


SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 


49 


yond all natural and reasonable bounds. Into this error, which is 
but too common, writers of genius may sometimes fall, by unluckily 
losing sight of the true point of the sublime. This is also called 
fustian, or rant. Shakspeare, a great but incorrect genius, is not 
unexceptionable here. Dryden and Lee, in their tragedies, abound 
with it. 

Thus far of the Sublime, of which I have treated fully, because it 
is so capital an excellency in fine writing, and because clear and 
precise ideas on this head are, as far as I know, not to be met with 
in critical writers. 

Before I conclude this lecture, there is one observation which 1 
choose to make at this time ; I shall make it once for all, and hope 
it will be afterwards remembered. It is with respect to the instan¬ 
ces of faults, or rather blemishes and iipperfections, which, as I have 
done in this lecture, I shall hereafter continue to take, when I can, 
from writers of reputation. I have not the least intention thereby 
to disparage their character in the general. I shall have other oc¬ 
casions of doing equal justice to their beauties. But it is no reflec¬ 
tion on any human performance, that it is not absolutely perfect 
The task would be much easier for me, to collect instances of faults 
from bad writers. But they would draw no attention, when quoted 
from books which nobody reads. And I conceive, that the method 
which I follow, will contribute more to make the best authors be read 
with pleasure, when one properly distinguishes their beauties from 
their faults ; and is led to imitate and admire only what is worthy 
of imitation and admiration. 


QUESTIONS. 


Having treated of grandeur or sub¬ 
limity in external objects, for what 
does the way seem now to be cleared? 
Why may the sublime in writing be 
examined here with as much propriety 
as in any subsequent part of the lec¬ 
tures ? What evidence have we that 
the sublime has often been employed 
in a loose and vasrue sense ? Why is 
this mentioned ? What is the true sense 
of sublime writing? What indefinite, 
and therefore very improper sense, has 
often been applied to it? If this were 
correct, what would be the conse¬ 
quence? By whom is the sublime in 
this improper sense often used ? How 
does he set out; but from this view, in 


what manner does he frequently de¬ 
part? How is this illustrated? What 
are the five sources of the sublime point¬ 
ed out by him ? Of this plan, what is 
remarked; and why ? From this what 
appears ? What remarks are made of 
Longinus, as a critic and a writer? 
Why was it necessary for our author 
to give his opinion of his work; and 
why should it be consulted ? Where 
must the foundation of the sublime in 
composition be laid ? When is the de¬ 
scription not entitled to come under this 
class ? What objects does this exclude ? 
How must the object be set before us, 
and described? On this, what princi¬ 
pally depends? Tf his own feelings be 







19 a QUESTIONS. [lect. iv. 


languid, what will be the consequence ? 
Where do we generally find the most 
striking instances of the sublime ? To 
what are the early ages of the world 
peculiarly favourable; why ; and how 
is this illustrated? To what is the 
change undergone in the progress of 
society more favourable ? In what wri¬ 
tings do we find the highest instances 
of the sublime ? Of the descriptions of 
the deity, in them, what is observed ? 
What illustrations are given from the 
18th Psalm, and from the prophet Ha- 
bakkuk? What instance is g'ven by 
Longinus, and what is said of it ? In 
what language is the same thought 
magnificently amplified by Isaiah ? 
What passage in the Psalms deserves 
to be mentioned under this head ; and 
what is said of it ? To what does Ho¬ 
mer owe much of his grandeur ? What, 
1o every reader of the Iliad, presents fre¬ 
quent instances of sublime writing? 
What often heightens the majesty of 
his warlike scenes ? Hence, on what 
passage has Longinus bestowed high 
and just commendations ? What is said 
of the passage in the 20th book, where 
all the gods take part in the engage¬ 
ment ? Repeat it. In Ossian, what are 
particularly favourable to the sublime ? 
What does he possess ? In what does he 
not deal; how does he throw forth his 
images; and what is the effect? For 
what do we look among poets of more 
polished tirpes; and why? Where 
dwells the sublime, and with what, 
does it materially associate itself? Re¬ 
peat the passage. What is said of it ? 
Why have these instances been pro¬ 
duced ? To what are they respectively 
exposed? Why is a defect, either in 
conciseness or simplicity, hurtful, in a 
peculiar manner, to the sublime ? Re¬ 
peat Lucan’s application of Csesar’s 
address to the pilot. Why is rhyme un¬ 
favourable to the sublime; and what, 
in it, weakens the native force of sub¬ 
limity ? What tends farther to enfeeble 
it? How is this illustrated from Ho¬ 
mer’s description of the nod of Jupiter? 
Of Pope’s translation, what is remark¬ 
ed? 

Of our blank verse, what is ob¬ 
served ? By what author is the fullest 
proof of this given ? Repeat the illus¬ 
tration. What is said of it? What is 
mentioned as another necessary requi¬ 


site to the sublime ? From what does it 
arise; what does it suppose ; and why ? 
From what does it appear that the 
great art of the writer, and the diffi¬ 
culty of sublime description, lies here ? 
In order to render a storm or a tempest 
sublime in description, what is requi¬ 
site ? Repeat the passage in which this 
is happily effected by Virgil. 01 this 
description, what is said? What, when 
description is meant to be sublime, seems 
not to have been sufficiently attended 
to ? When may a writer’s descriptions 
have improprieties in them, and yet be 
beautiful; and why? Why is the case 
quite different with the sublime? Of 
the nature of the emotion aimed at by 
the sublime, what is observed; anti 
why ? What is said of Milton’s descrip¬ 
tion of the battle of the angels ? Repeat 
it. How has Claudius rendered this 
idea burlesque and ridiculous? What 
description in Virgil is also censurable ? 
Repeat it. What is said of this descrip-, 
tion ? How will the debasing effect of 
the idea here presented, appear in a 
still stronger light ? What do such in¬ 
stances show ? Where are the proper 
sources of the sublime to be found? 
How can we not expect to produce it ? 
Of what does it, for the most part, 
stand clear; how must it come ; and 
of what must it be the natural off¬ 
spring? Whence may we draw the 
sublime? In judging of any striking 
beauty in composition, to what must 
we attend; and when only can we pro¬ 
nounce it sublime ? Why cannot the 
emotion of the sublime be protracted? 
What is the utmost that we can ex¬ 
pect? In whom does this effulgence 
frequently break forth with great lus¬ 
tre ? Of the writings of some few indi¬ 
viduals, such as Demosthenes and Pla¬ 
to, what is observed ? What is remark¬ 
ed of what is called a sublime style; 
and what are persons apt to imagine ? 
How does it appear that nothing can 
be more false than this opinion is ? Of 
this illustration, what has Boileau ob¬ 
served? In general, in all good wri¬ 
tings, where does the sublime lie; and 
what follows ? What expressions does 
the sublime reject; and of being sub¬ 
lime, in what does the great secret lie ? 
What will be found to hold without 
exception; and what follows ? On 
what must we pass the- same unfa- 






QUESTIONS. 


49 b 


LECT. V.] 


vourable judgment ? Into what error 
of this kind has Mr. Addison fallen ? 
Repeat the passage. For what pur¬ 
pose are introductions of this kind used; 
and what are they like ? By this ob¬ 
servation, what is not meant; and 
why ? What two faults are the oppo¬ 
site to the sublime ? In what does the 
frigid consist; what does it betray, and 
what examples are given? In what 
does the bombast lie? How many 
writers of genius sometimes fall into 
this error ? What examples are given ? 
Why has our author treated thus ful¬ 
ly of the sublime ? What observation 
does he here, once for all, make ? Of 
what has lie, thereby, no intention ? 
Why does he not collect his instances 
of faults from bad writers ? To what 
does he think the method which he fol¬ 
lows will contribute ? 


ANALYSIS. 

1. The term sublime vaguely used. 

a. Johannes Gulielmus Bergerus. 

b. Longinus. 

2. The foundation of the sublime. 

3. Instances of the sublime in writing. 

a. The sacred Scriptures. 

b. Homer’s poems. 

c. The works of Ossian. 

D. Milton’s writings. 

4. Essentials to the sublime. 

a. Conciseness and simplicity. 

b. Strength. 

a. The proper choice of cir¬ 
cumstances. 

b. Instances of illustration. 

5. The sources of the sublime. 

6. The nature of a sublime emotion. 

7. A sublime style. 

8. The faults opposite to the sublime. 

a. The frigid style. 

b. The bombastic style. 


LECTURE V. 


BEAUTY, AND OTHER PLEASURES OF TASTE. 

As sublimity constitutes a particular character of composition, 
and forms one of the highest excellences of eloquence and of po¬ 
etry, it was proper to treat of it at some length. It will not be ne¬ 
cessary to discuss so particularly all the other pleasures that arise 
from taste, as some of them have less relation to our main subject. 
On beauty only I shall make several observations, both as the sub¬ 
ject is curious, and as it tends to improve taste, and to discover the 
foundation of several of the graces of description and of poetry.* 
Beauty, next to sublimity, affords, beyond doubt, the highest 
pleasure to the imagination. The emotion which it raises, is very 
distinguishable from that of sublimity. It is of a calmer kind ; 
more gentle and soothing; does not elevate the mind so much, but 


* See Hutchinson’s Inquiry concerning- Eeauty and Virtue :—Gerard on Taste, chap, 
iii.:—Inquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful:—Elements of 
Criticism, chap. iii. :—Spectator, vol. vi. : —Essay on the Pleasures of Taste. 








oO 


BEAUTY. 


[lect. 


produces an agreeable serenity. Sublimity raises a feeling, too vio¬ 
lent, as I showed, to be lasting; the pleasure arising from beauty 
admits of longer continuance. It extends also to a much greater 
variety of objects than sublimity; to a variety indeed so great, that 
the feelings which beautiful objects produce, differ considerably, not 
in degree only, but also in kind, from one another. Hence, no word 
in the language is used in a more vague signification than beauty. 
It is applied to almost every external object that pleases the eye, or 
the ear ; to a great number of the graces of writing ; to many dis¬ 
positions of the mind ; nay, to several objects of mere abstract sci¬ 
ence. We talk currently of a beautiful tree or flower ; a beautiful 
poem ; a beautiful character ; and a beautiful theorem in mathe¬ 
matics. . P 

Hence we may easily perceive, that, among so great a variety oi 
objects, to find out some one quality in which they all agree, and 
which is the foundation of that agreeable sensation they all raise, 
must be a very difficult, if not, more probably, a vain attempt. Ob¬ 
jects denominated beautiful, are so different, as to please, not in 
virtue of any one quality common to them all, but by means of se¬ 
veral different principles in human nature. The agreeable emotion 
which they all raise, is somewhat of the same nature; and therefore, 
has the common name of beauty given to it; but it is raised by 
different causes. 

Hypotheses, however, have been framed by ingenious men, for as¬ 
signing the fundamental quality of beauty in all objects. In parti¬ 
cular, uniformity amidst variety, has been insisted on as this funda¬ 
mental quality. For the beauty of many figures, I admit that this 
accounts in a satisfactory manner. But when we endeavour to apply 
this principle to beautiful objects of some other kind, as to colour, 
for instance, or motion, we shall soon find that it has no place. And 
even in external figured objects it does not hold, that their beauty 
is in proportion to their mixture of variety with uniformity; seeing 
many please us as highly beautiful, which have almost no variety at 
all, and others, which are various to a degree of intricacy. Laying 
systems of this kind, therefore, aside, what I now propose is, to give 
an enumeration of several of those classes of objects in which beau¬ 
ty most remarkably appears ; and to point out, as far as I can, the 
separate principles of beauty in each of them. 

Colour affords, perhaps, the simplest instance of beauty, and 
therefore the fittest to begin with. Here, neither variety, nor uni¬ 
formity, nor any other principle that I know, can be assigned as the 
foundation of beauty. We can refer it to no other cause but the 
structure of the eye, which determines us to receive certain modifi¬ 
cations of the rays of light with more pleasure than others. And we 
see accordingly, that, as the organ of sensation varies in different 
persons, they have their different favourite colours. It is probable, 
that association of ideas has influence, in some cases, on the plea¬ 
sure which we receive from colours. Green, for instance, may ap¬ 
pear more beautiful, by being connected in our ideas with rural 
prospects and scenes; white, with innocence; blue, with the sereni- 


JLECT. V.] 


BEAUTY. 


5 \ 


ty of the sky. Independent of associations of this kind, all that 
we can farther observe concerning colours is, that those chosen for 
beauty are, generally, delicate, rather than glaring. Such are those 
paintings with which nature hath ornamented some of her works, 
and which art strives in vain to imitate; as the feathers of several 
kinds of birds, the leaves of flowers, and the fine variation of co¬ 
lours exhibited by the sky at the rising and setting of the sun. These 
present to us the highest instances of the beauty of colouring; and 
have accordingly been the favourite subjects of poetical description 
in all countries. 

From colour we proceed to figure, which opens to us forms of 
beauty more complex and diversified. Regularity first occurs to 
be noticed as a source of beauty. By a regular figure, is meant, one 
which we perceive to be formed according to some certain rule, 
and not left arbitrary, or loose, in the construction of its parts. 
Thus, a circle, a square, a triangle, or a hexagon, please the eye, by 
their regularity, as beautiful figures. We must not, however, con¬ 
clude, that all figures please in proportion to their regularity; or that 
regularity is the sole, or the chief, foundation of beauty in figure. 
On the contrary, a certain graceful variety is found to be a much 
more powerful principle of beauty; and is therefore studied a great 
deal more than regularity, in all works that are designed merely to 
please the eye. I am, indeed, inclined to think, that regularity ap¬ 
pears beautiful to us, chiefly, if not only, on account of its sugges¬ 
ting the ideas of fitness, propriety, and use, which have always a 
greater connexion with orderly and proportioned forms, than with 
those which appear not constructed according to any certain rule. 
It is clear, that nature, who is undoubtedly the most graceful artist, 
hath, in all her ornamental works, pursued variety with an apparent 
neglect of regularity. Cabinets, doors,-and windows, are made after 
a regular form, in cubes and parallelograms, with exact propor¬ 
tion of parts; and by being so formed they please the eye: for this 
good reason, that, being works of use, they are, by such figures, the 
better suited to the ends for which they were designed. But plants, 
flowers, and leaves, are full of variety and diversity. A straight ca¬ 
nal is an insipid figure, in comparison of the meanders of rivers. 
Cones and pyramids are beautiful; but trees growing in their natural 
wilderness, are infinitely more beautiful than when trimmed into py¬ 
ramids and cones. The apartments of a house must be regular in 
their disposition, for the conveniency of its inhabitants ; but a gar¬ 
den which is designed merely for beauty, would be exceedingly dis¬ 
gusting, if it had as much uniformity and order in its parts as a 
dwelling-house. 

Mr. Hogarth, in his Analysis of Beauty, has observed, that figures 
bounded by curve lines are, in general, more beautiful than those 
bounded by straight lines and angles. He pitches upon two lines, 
on which, according to him, the beauty of figure principally depends; 
and he has illustrated and supported his doctrine, by a surprising 
number of instances. The one is the waving line, or a curve bend¬ 
ing backwards and forwards, somewhat in the form of the letter S. 
H 


BEAUTY. 


[lect. v. 


This he calls the line of beauty; and shows how often it is found 
in shells, flowers, and such other ornamental works of nature; as is 
common also in the figures designed by painters apd sculptors, for 
the purpose of decoration. The other line, which he calls the line 
of grace, is the former waving curve, twisted round some solid body. 
The curling worm of a common jack is one of the instances he 
o-ives of it. Twisted pillars, and twisted horns, also exhibit it. In 
all the instances which he mentions, variety plainly appears to be so 
material a principle of beauty, that he seems not to err much when 
he defines the art of drawing pleasing forms, to be the art of varying 
well. For the curve line, so much the favourite of painters, derives, 
according to him, its chief advantage, from its perpetual bending 
and variation from the stiff regularity of the straight line. 

Motion furnishes another source of beauty, distinct from figure. 
Motion of itself is pleasing; and bodies in motion are, “caeteris 
paribus,” preferred to those in rest. It is, however, only gentle mo¬ 
tion that belongs to the beautiful; for when it is very swift, or very 
forcible, such as that of a torrent, it partakes of the sublime. The 
motion of a bird gliding through the air, is extremely beautiful; the 
swiftness with which lightning darts through the heavens, is magnifi¬ 
cent and astonishing. And here, it is proper to observe, that the 
sensations of sublime and beautiful are not always distinguished by 
very distant boundaries; but are capable, in several instances, of 
approaching towards each other. Thus, a smooth running stream 
is one of the most beautiful objects in nature: as it swells gradually 
into a great river, the beautiful, by degrees, is lost in the sublime. 
A young tree is a beautiful object; a spreading ancient oak, is a 
venerable and a grand one. The calmness of a fine morning is 
beautiful; the universal stillness of the evening is highly sublime. 
But to return to the beauty of motion, it will be found, I think, to 
hold very generally, that motion in a straight line is not so beautiful 
as in an undulating waving direction; and motion upwards is, com¬ 
monly too, more agreeable than motion downwards. The easy cur¬ 
ling motion of flame and smoke may be instanced, as an object 
singularly agreeable: and here Mr. Hogarth’s waving line recurs 
upon us as a principle of beauty. That artist observes, very ingeni¬ 
ously, that all the common and necessary motions for the business of 
life, are performed by men in straight or plain lines: but that all 
the graceful and ornamental movements are made in waving lines: 
an observation not unworthy of being attended to, by all who study 
the grace of gesture and action. 

Though colour, figure, and motion, be separate principles of 
beauty ; yet in many beautiful objects they all meet, and thereby 
render the beauty both greater, and more complex. Thus, in flow¬ 
ers, trees, animals, we are entertained at once with the delicacy of 
the colour, with the gracefulness of the figure, and sometimes also 
with the motion of the object. Although each of these produce a 
separate agreeable sensation, yet they are of such a similar nature, 
as readily to mix and blend in one general perception of beauty, 
which we ascribe to the whole object as its cause: for beauty is al- 


LECT. V.] 


BEAUTY. 


53 


ways conceived by us, as something residing in the object which 
raises the pleasant sensation; a sort of glory which dwells upon, and 
invests it. Perhaps the most complete assemblage of beautiful ob¬ 
jects that can any where be found, is presented by a rich natural 
landscape, where there is a sufficient variety of objects; fields in 
verdure, scattered trees and flowers, running water, and animals 
grazing. If to these be joined some of the productions of art, 
which suit such a scene: as a bridge with arches over a river, smoke 
rising from cottages in' the midst of trees, and the distant view of a 
fine building seen by the rising sun ; we then enjoy, in the highest 
perfection, that gay, cheerful, and placid sensation which character¬ 
izes beauty. To have an eye and a taste formed for catching the pe¬ 
culiar beauties of such scenes as these, is a necessary requisite for 
all who attempt poetical description. 

The beauty of the human countenance is more complex than any 
that we have yet considered. It includes the beauty of colour, ari¬ 
sing from the delicate shades of the complexion; and the beauty of 
figure, arising from the lines which form the different features of the 
face. But the chief beauty of the countenance depends upon a 
mysterious expression, which it conveys,of the qualities of the mind; 
of good sense, or good humour ; of sprightliness, candour, benevo¬ 
lence, sensibility, or other amiable dispositions. How it comes to 
pass that a certain conformation of features is connected in our idea 
with certain moral qualities; whether we are taught by instinct, or 
by experience, to form this connexion, and to read the mind in the 
countenance, belongs not to us now to inquire, nor is indeed easy to 
resolve. The fact is certain, and acknowledged, that what gives the 
human countenance its most distinguishing beauty, is what is called 
its expression; or an image, which it is conceived to show of internal 
moral dispositions. 

This leads us to observe, that there are certain qualities of the 
mind which, whether expressed in the countenance, orby words, or 
by actions, always raise in us a feeling similar to that of beauty. 
There are two great classes of moral qualities; one is of the high and 
the great virtues, which require extraordinary efforts, and turn upon 
dangers and sufferings; as heroism, magnanimity, contempt of plea¬ 
sures, and contempt of death* These, as I have observed in a for¬ 
mer lecture, excite in the spectator an emotion of sublimity and 
grandeur. The other class is generally of the social virtues, and 
such as are of a softer and gentler kind ; as compassion, mildness, 
friendship, and generosity. These raise in the beholder a sensation 
of pleasure, so much akin to that produced by beautiful external 
objects, that, though of a more dignified nature, it may, without 
impropriety, be classed under the same head. 

A species of beauty, distinct from any I have yet mentioned, ari¬ 
ses froin design or art; or in other words, from the perception ol 
means being adapted to an end; or the parts of any thing being well 
fitted to answer the design of the whole. When, in considering the 
structure of a tree or a plant, we observe how all the parts, the roots, 
the stem, the bark, and the leaves, are suited to the growth and 


54 


BEAUTY. 


[lect. v. 


nutriment of the whole; much more when we survey all the parts 
and members of a living animal; or when we examine any of the 
curious works of art; such as a clock, a ship, or any nice machine; 
the pleasure which we have in the survey, is wholly founded on this 
sense of beauty. It is altogether different from the perception of 
beauty produced by colour, figure, variety, or any of the causes for¬ 
merly mentioned. When I look at a watch, for instance, the case 
of it, if finely engraved, and of curious workmanship, strikes me as 
beautiful in the former sense; bright colour, exquisite polish, figures 
finely raised and turned. But when I examine the spring and the 
wheels, and praise the beauty of the internal machinery, my pleasure 
then arises wholly from the view of that admirable art, with which 
so many various and complicated parts are made to unite for one 

purpose. . . _ 

This sense of beauty, in fitness and design, has an extensive influ¬ 
ence over many of our ideas. It is the foundation of the beauty which 
we discover in the proportion of doors, windows, arches, pillars, and 
all the orders of architecture. Let the ornaments of a building be ever 
so fine and elegant in themselves, yet, if they interfere with this sense 
of fitness and design, they lose their beauty, and hurt the eye, like 
disagreeable objects. Twisted columns, for instance, are undoubted¬ 
ly ornamental; but as they have an appearance of weakness, they al¬ 
ways displease when they are made use of to suppoi t any part of a 
building that is massy, and that seems to require a more substantial 
prop. We cannot look upon any work whatever, without being led, 
by a natural association of ideas, to think of its end and design, and 
of course to examine the propriety of its parts, in relation to this 
design and end. When their propriety is clearly discerned, the work 
seems always to have some beauty; but when there is a total want of 
proprietv, it never fails of appearing deformed. Our sense of fitness 
and design,therefore, is so powerful, and holds so high a rank among 
our perceptions, as to regulate, in a great measure, our other ideas of 
beauty: an observation which I the rather make, as it is of the utmost 
importance, that all who study composition should carefully attend 
to it. For, in an epic poem, a history, an oration, or any work of ge¬ 
nius, we always require, as we do in other works, a fitness, or adjust¬ 
ment of means to the end which the author is supposed to have in 
view. Let his descriptions be ever so rich, or his figures ever so ele¬ 
gant, yet, if they are out of place, if they are not proper parts of that 
whole, if they suit not the main design, they lose all their beauty, nay, 
from beauties they are converted into deformities. Such power has 
our sense of fitness and congruity, to produce a total transformation 
of an object whose appearance otherwise would have been beautiful. 

After having mentioned so many various species of beauty, it now 
only remains to take notice of beauty as it is applied to writing or dis¬ 
course; a term commonly used in a sense altogether loose and unde¬ 
termined. For it is applied to all that pleases, either in style or sen¬ 
timent, from whatever principle that pleasure flows; and a beautiful 
poem or oration means, in common language, no other than a good 
one, or one well composed. In this sense, it is plain, the word isal- 


1.ECT. V.] 


PLEASURES OF TASTE. 


5fj 


together indefinite, and points at no particular species or kind of beau- 
ty. There is, however, another sense, somewhat more definite, in 
which beauty of writing characterizes a particular manner; when it is 
used to signify a certain grace and amenity in the turn either of style 
or sentiment for which some authors have been peculiarly distin¬ 
guished. In this sense, it denotes a manner neither remarkably sub¬ 
lime, nor vehemently passionate, nor uncommonly sparkling; but 
such as raises in the reader an emotion of the gentle, placid kind, 
similar to what is raised by the contemplation of beautiful objects in 
nature; which neither lifts the mind very high, nor agitates it very 
much, but diffuses over the imagination an agreeable and pleasing 
serenity. Mr. Addison is a writer altogether of this character; and is 
one of the most proper and precise examples that can be given of it. 
Fenelon, the author of the Adventures of Telemachus, may be given 
as another example. Virgil too, though very capable of rising on oc¬ 
casions into the sublime, yet, in his general manner, is distinguished 
by the character of beauty and grace, rather than of sublimity. Among 
orators, Cicero has more of the beautiful than Demosthenes, whose 
genius led him wholly towards vehemence and strength. 

This much it is sufficient to have said upon the subject of beauty. 
We have traced it through a variety of forms; as next to sublimity, 
it is the most copious source of the pleasures of taste; and as the 
consideration of the different appearances, and principles of beauty, 
tends to the improvement of taste in many subjects. 

But it is not only by appearing under the forms of sublime or 
beautiful, that objects delight the imagination. From several other 
principles also, they derive their power of giving it pleasure. 

Novelty, for instance, has been mentioned by Mr. Addison, and 
by every writer on this subject. An object which has no merit to 
recommend it, except its being uncommon or new, by means of 
this quality alone, produces in the mind a vivid and an agreeable 
emotion. Hence that passion of curiosity, which prevails so gene¬ 
rally among mankind. Objects and ideas which have been long- 
familiar, make too faint an impression to give an agreeable exercise 
to our faculties. New and strange objects rouse the mind from its 
dormant state by giving it a quick and pleasing impulse. Hence, 
in a great measure, the entertainment afforded us by fiction and 
romance. The emotion raised by novelty is of a more lively and 
pungent nature, than that produced by beauty; but much shorter 
in its continuance. For if the object have in itself no charms to 
hold our attention, the shining gloss thrown upon it by novelty soon 
wears off. 

Besides novelty, imitation is another source of pleasure to taste. 
This gives rise to what Mr. Addison terms, the secondary pleasures 
of imagination; which form, doubtless, a very extensive class. For 
all imitation affords some pleasure; not only the imitation of beauti¬ 
ful or great objects, by recalling the original ideas of beauty or 
grandeur which such objects themselves exhibited; but even objects 
which have neither beauty nor grandeur, nay, some which are terri¬ 
ble or deformed, please us in a secondary or represented view. 


IMITATION AND DESCRIPTION. [lect. v. 


The pleasures of melody and harmony belong also to taste: there 
is no agreeable sensation we receive either from beauty or sublimity, 
but what is capable of being heightened by the power of musical 
sound. Hence the delight of poetical numbers, and even of the 
more concealed and looser measures of prose. Wit, humour, and 
ridicule, likewise open a variety of pleasures of taste, quite distinct 
from any that we have yet considered. 

At present it is not necessary to pursue any farther the subject of 
the pleasures of taste. I have opened some of the general princi¬ 
ples ; it is time now to make the application to our chief subject. 
If the question be put, to what class of those pleasures of taste which 
I have enumerated, that pleasure is to be referred which we receive 
from poetry, eloquence, or fine writing? My answer is, not to any 
one, but to them all. This singular advantage, writing and discourse 
possess, that they encompass so large and rich a field on all sides, 
and have power to exhibit, in great perfection, not a single set of 
objects only, but almost the whole of those which give pleasure to 
taste and imagination; whether that pleasure arise from sublimity, 
from beauty in its different forms, from design, and art, from moral 
sentiment, from novelty, from harmony, from wit, humour, and ridi¬ 
cule. To whichsoever of these the peculiar bent of a person’s taste 
lies, from some writer or other, he has it always in his power to re¬ 
ceive the gratification of it. 

Now this high power which eloquence and poetry possess, of sup¬ 
plying taste and imagination with such a wide circle of pleasures, 
they derive altogether from their having a greater capacity of imita¬ 
tion and description than is possessed by any other art. Of all the 
means which human ingenuity has contrived for recalling the images 
of real objects, and awakening, by representation, similar emotions 
to those which are raised by the original, none is so full and exten¬ 
sive as that which is executed by words and writing. Through the 
assistance of this happy invention, there is nothing, either in the 
natural or moral world, but what can be represented and set before 
the mind, in colours very strong and lively. Hence it is usual among 
critical writers, to speak of discourse as the chief of all the imitative 
or mimetic arts; they compare it with painting and with sculpture, 
and in many respects prefer it justly before them. 

This style was first introduced by Aristotle in his poetics; and, 
since his time, has acquired a general currency among modern au¬ 
thors. But as it is of consequence to introduce as much precision 
as possible into critical language, I must observe, that this manner 
of speaking is not accurate. Neither discourse in general, nor po¬ 
etry in particular, can be called altogether imitative arts. We must 
distinguish betwixt imitation and description, which are ideas that 
should not be confounded. Imitation is performed by means of 
somewhat that has a natural likeness and resemblance to the thing 
imitated, and of consequence is understood by all: such are statues 
and pictures. Description, again, is the raising in the mind the 
conception of an object by means of some arbitrary or instituted 
symbols, understood only by those who agree in the institution of 


lect. v.] IMITATION AND DESCRIPTION. 


57 


them; such are words and writing. Words have no natural re¬ 
semblance to the ideas or objects which they are employed to sig¬ 
nify ; but a statue or a picture has a natural likeness to the original. 
And therefore imitation and description differ considerably in their 
nature from each other. 

As far, indeed, as the poet introduces into his work persons 
actually speaking ; and, by the words which he puts into their 
mouths, represents the discourse which they might be supposed 
to hold ; so far his art may more accurately be called imitative; 
and this is the case in all dramatic composition. But, in narrative 
or descriptive works, it can with no propriety be called so. Who, 
for instance, would call Virgil’s description of a tempest, in the first 
-ZEneid, an imitation of a storm? If we heard of the imitation of a 
battle, we might naturally think of some mock fight, or representa¬ 
tion of a battle on the stage, but would never apprehend, that it 
meant one of Homer’s descriptions in the Iliad. I admit, at the 
same time, that imitation and description agree in their principal 
effect, of recalling, by external signs, the ideas of things which we 
do not see. But though in this they coincide, yet it should not be 
forgotten, that the terms themselves are not synonymous; that they 
import different means of effecting the same end ; and of course 
make different impressions on the mind.* 

Whether we consider poetry in particular, and discourse in gene¬ 
ral, as imitative or descriptive; it is evident that their whole pow¬ 
er, in recalling the impressions of real objects, is derived from the 
significancy of words. As their excellency flows altogether from 
this source, \ve must, in order to make way for further inquiries, 


* Though in the execution of particular parts, poetry is certainly descriptive rather 
than imitative, yet there is a qualified sense in which poetry, in the general, may be 
termed an imitative art. The subject of the poet (as Dr. Gerard has shown in the ap¬ 
pendix to his Essay on Taste) is intended to be an imitation, not of things really exist¬ 
ing, but of the course of nature : that is, a feigned representation of such events, or 
such scenes, as though they never had a being, yet might have existed ; and which, 
therefore, by their probability, bear a resemblance to nature. It was probably in 
this sense, that Aristotle termed poetry a mimetic art. How far either the imitation 
or the description which poetry employs, is superior to the imitative powers of paint¬ 
ing and music, is well shown by Mr. Harris, in his treatise on music, painting, and 
poetry. The chief advantage which poetry, or discourse in general, enjoys, is, that 
whereas, by the nature of his art, the painter is confined to the representation of a sin¬ 
gle moment, writing and discourse can trace a transaction through its whole pro¬ 
gress. That moment, indeed, which the painter pitches upon for the subject of his 
picture, he may be said to exhibit with more advantage than the poet or orator ; inas¬ 
much as he sets before us, in one view, all the minute concurring circumstances of 
the event which happens in one individual point of time, as they appear in nature; 
while discourse is obliged to exhibit them in succession, and by means of a detail 
which is in danger of becoming tedious, in order to be clear ; or, if not tedious, is in 
danger of being obscure. But to that point of time which he has chosen, the painter 
being entirely confined, he cannot exhibit various stages of the same action or event; 
and he is subject to this farther defect, that he can only exhibit objects as they appear 
to the eye, and can very imperfectly delineate characters and sentiments, which are 
the noblest subjects of imitation or description. The power of representing these 
with full advantage, gives a high superiority to discourse and writing, above all other 
imitative arts. 


8 



5b 


[lect. v. 


QUESTIONS 


begin at this lbuntain-head. I shall, therefore, in the next lecture, 
enter upon the consideration of language : of the origin, the pro¬ 
gress, and construction of which, I purpose to treat at some length. 



QUESTIONS. 


Why was it necessary to treat of i 
sublimity at some length? Why will < 
it not be necessary to discuss, so parti- ] 
cularly, all the other pleasures that < 
arise from taste ? Why are several ob- ; 
servations made on beauty ? Beauty, < 
next to sublimity, affording the highest i 
pleasure to the imagination, what is : 
the nature of the emotion which it 
raises ? To how great a variety of ob¬ 
jects does it extend ; and hence what 
follows? To what is it applied; and of 
what do we currently talk? Hence, 
what may we easily perceive ? By 
what means do objects, denominated 
beautiful, please ? Why has the 
agreeable emotion which they all 
raise, the common name of beauty 
given to it ? For assigning what, have 
hypotheses been framed? What has 
teen insisted on, as the fundamental 
quality of beauty? When does this 
principle apply; and when does it not ? 
Why does not this principle hold in ex¬ 
ternal figured objects? Laying sys¬ 
tems of this kind, therefore, aside, what 
is proposed ? What affords the simplest 
instance of beauty ? Hence, what can¬ 
not be assigned as the fundamental 
quality of beauty ? To what only can 
we refer it ; and what do we accord¬ 
ingly see? What, is it probable, in 
some cases, has some influence ; and 
what examples are given? Indepen¬ 
dent of associations of this kind, what is 
all that can be farther observed con¬ 
cerning colours? What instances are 
mentioned? Of these, what is said? 
From colour, to what do we proceed; 
and of its beauty, what is observed? 
In it, what first occurs to be noticed as 
a source of beauty; and by it what is 
meant? What examples are given? 
What must we not, however, conclude ? 
On the contrary, what is a more pow¬ 
erful principle of beauty; and where is it 
studied ? Why is our author inclined to 
think regularity appears beautiful; and 


with what have these always a great 
connexion? Of the course pursued by 
nature, what is clear? Of cabinets, 
doors, and windows, what is observed; 
and why do they please ? Of a straight 
canal, of cones and pyramids, and of 
the apartments of a house, what is 
said ? What has Mr. Hogarth, in his 
Analysis of Beauty, observed? Upon 
what two lines does he pitch; and 
what does he call them ? In what is the 
line of beauty found; and in what, the 
line of grace ? How does he define the 
art of "drawing pleasing forms; and 
why? What furnishes another source 
of beauty; and what is said of it? 
What motion only belongs to the beau¬ 
tiful ; and why ? How is this illustra¬ 
ted? Here, what is it proper to ob¬ 
serve? How is this observation illus¬ 
trated from a young tree, and an an¬ 
cient oak; and from the morning and 
evening? In the beauty of motion, 
what, in general, will be found to hold 
true ? What may be instanced as an 
; object singularly agreeable? Of the 
; common and necessary motions for the 
■ business of life, and of the graceful and 
i ornamental movements, what does Mr. 
i Hogarth very ingeniously observe ? Of 
• the union of colour, figure, and motion, 
i in many beautiful objects, what is ob- 
l served; and how is this illustrated? 

- Of the sensation produced by each of 
3 these, what is said; and why ? In 

- what, perhaps, is the most complete 
} assemblage of beautiful objects present- 
? ed? How may this be rendered the 
; highest source of that gay, cheerful, 
? and placid sensation, that characterizes 
3 beauty ? What is a necessary requisite 
s for all who attempt poetical description? 
? Of the beauty of the human counte- 
? nance, what is remarked; and what 

- does it include ? But on what does its 
t chief beauty depend? What belongs 
o not to us now to inquire ; and what, is 
I certain? 













QUESTIONS. 


158 a 


lect. v.] 


To what observation does this lead ? 
How are these qualities divided; what 
is the first, on what do they turn, and 
what emotion do they excite ? 01‘what 
virtues is the other class? Of the sen¬ 
sation which these raise, what is ob¬ 
served? From what does a species of 
beauty, distinct from any which has 
been mentioned, arise ? In the examina¬ 
tions of what, is the pleasure which we 
receive wholly founded on this sense of 
beauty; and from what is it altogether 
different ? How is this illustrated in the 
examination of a watch ? Of what is 
this sense of beauty, in fitness and de¬ 
sign, the foundation ? Of* the ornaments 
of a building, what is observed; and 
how is this illustrated ? In the exami¬ 
nation of any work, to what are we na¬ 
turally led? When does the work 
seem to have some beauty ; and when 
does it appear deformed ? What obser¬ 
vation follows; and why is it made ? 
How is it fully illustrated in an epic 
poem, a history, an oration, or any 
work of genius ? What species of beau¬ 
ty remains to be noticed ? From what 
does it appear that this term is used in 
a sense altogether loose and undeter¬ 
mined ? Of the w r ord in this sense, what 
is observed ? When does beauty of wri¬ 
ting characterize a particular manner? 
In this sense, what does it denote? 
What writers of this class are mention¬ 
ed ; and what is said of them ? Why 
has beauty been traced through a va¬ 
riety of forms ? Objects deriving their 
power of giving pleasure to the imagi¬ 
nation, from other principles besides 
beauty and sublimity, what is the first 
that is mentioned; what is said of it; 
and hence what passion arises? Of 
objects and ideas that are familiar, and 
of those that are new and strange, what 
is observed ; and hence what arises ? 
Why is the emotion raised by novelty, 
though of a more lively and pungent 
nature, yet much shorter in its continu¬ 
ance, than that which is produced by 
beauty? What is another source of 
pleasure to taste; and to what does it 
give rise ? From what does it appear 
that these form a very extensive class? 
Of the influence of melody and harmo¬ 
ny, as sources of pleasure to taste, what 
is observed; and hence what follows? 
Of wit, humour, and ridicule, as sources 
of pleasure to taste, what is observed ? 
To what class is the pleasure which 


we receive from poetry, eloquence, or 
fine writing, to be referred ? What sin¬ 
gular advantage do writing and dis¬ 
course possess? From what do elo¬ 
quence and poetry derive the high 
power of supplying the taste and the 
imagination with so wide a field ot 
pleasures; and what follows? From 
the assistance of this happy invention, 
what advantages are derived, and 
hence how do critical writers usually 
speak of discourse ? With what do 
they compare it? Where, and by whom 
was this style first introduced; and 
what has it since acquired ? In critical 
language, what is of consequence; 
and what follows ? Between what 
ideas must we distinguish ? How is 
imitation performed ? What is descrip¬ 
tion ? From what does it appear that 
imitation and description differ consi¬ 
derably in their nature from each 
other? How far may the poet’s art be 
called imitative, and in what composi¬ 
tions is this the case ? In what can it 
not, with propriety, be so called; and 
how is this illustrated ? In what is it 
admitted that imitation and descrip¬ 
tion agree; yet what should not be 
forgotten? From what is the power 
of poetry and discourse evidently de¬ 
rived ? Upon what, in the next lecture, 
shall we enter; and why ? 


ANALYSIS. 

1. Beauty. 

a. The nature of beauty. 

b. Hypotheses of beauty. 

c. The beauty of colours. 

d. The beauty of figures. 

a. Mr. Hogarth’s Analysis ol 
Beauty. 

e. Motion a source of beauty. 

f. The union of colour, figure, and 
motion. 

g. The beauty of the human coun¬ 
tenance. 

h. Moral qualities. 

i. The beauty of design. 

j. Beauty in writing. 

2. Novelty. 

3. Imitation. 

4. Melody and harmony. 

5. Wit, humour, and ridicule. 

6. Writing and discourse. 

a. Imitation and description. 








(586) 


LECTURE VI. 


RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE. 

Having finished my observations on the pleasures of taste, which 
were meant to be introductory to the principal subject of these lec¬ 
tures, I now begin to treat of language ; which is the foundation of 
the whole power of eloquence. This will lead to a considerable 
discussion ; and there are few subjects belonging to polite litera¬ 
ture, which more merit such a discussion. I shall first give a histo¬ 
ry of the rise and progress of language in several particulars, from 
its early to its more advanced periods ; which shall be followed by 
a similar history of the rise and progress of writing. I shall next 
give some account of the construction of language, on the principles 
of universal grammar; and shall, lastly, apply these observations 
more particularly to the English tongue.* 

Language, in general, signifies the expression of our ideas by cer¬ 
tain articulate sounds, which are used as the signs of those ideas. 
By articulate sounds, are meant those modulations of simple voice 
or of sound emitted from the thorax, which are formed by means of 
the mouth and its several organs, the teeth, the tongue, the lips, and 
the palate. How far there is any natural connexion between the 
ideas of the mind and the sounds emitted, will appear from what I 
am afterwards to offer. But as the natural connexion can, upon 
any system, affect only a small part of the fabric of language, the 
connexion between words and ideas may, in general, be considered 
as arbitrary and conventional, owing to the agreement of men among 
themselves; the clear proof of which is, that different nations have 
different languages, or a different set of articulate sounds, which 
they have chosen for communicating their ideas. 

This artificial method of communicating thought, we now behold 
carried to the highest perfection. Language is become a vehicle 
by which tne most delicate and refined emotions of one mind can 
be transmitted, or, if we may so speak, transfused into another. Not 


* See Dr Adam Smith’s Dissertation on the Formation of Languages Treatise of 
the Origin and Progress of Language, in 3 vols.Harris’s Hermes, or a Philosophical 
Inquiry concerning Language and Universal Grammar Essai sur l’Origine des Con- 
naissances Humaines, par l’Abbe CondillacPrincipe3 de Grammaire, par Marsais: 
—Grammaire Generale et RaisonneeTrait de la Formation Mechanique des Lan* 
o-ues par le President de BrossesDiscours sur l’lnegalite parmi les Hommes,par 
Itousseau Grammaire Generale, par Beauzee:—Principes de la Traduction, par Bat- 
teux:—Warburton’s Divine Legation of Moses, vol. iii.Sancti Minerva, cum notn? 
PerizoniiLes Vrais Principes de la Langue Francoise, par l’Abbe Girard. 




•LBCT. VI.] 


OF LANGUAGE. 


59 


only are names given to all objects around us, by which means an 
easy and speedy intercourse is carried on for providing the necessa¬ 
ries of life, but all the relations and differences among these objects 
are minutely marked, the invisible sentiments of the mind are de¬ 
scribed, the most abstract notions and conceptions are rendered in¬ 
telligible; and all the ideas which science can discover, or imagina¬ 
tion create, are known by their proper names. Nay, language has 
been carried so far as to be made an instrument of the most refined 
luxury. Not resting in mere perspicuity, we require ornament also; 
not satisfied with having the conceptions of others made known to 
us, we make a farther demand, to have them so decked and adorned 
as to entertain our fancy; and this demand, it is found very possible 
to gratify. In this state, we now find language. In this state, it has 
been found among many nations for some thousand years. The 
object is become familiar; and, like the expanse of the firmament, 
and other great objects, which we are accustomed to behold, we 
behold it without wonder. 

But carry your thoughts back to the first dawn of language among 
men. Reflect upon the feeble beginnings from which it must have 
arisen, and upon the many and great obstacles which it must have 
encountered in its progress; and you wdll find reason for the highest 
astonishment, on viewing the height which it has now attained. We 
admire several of the inventions of art ; we plume ourselves on 
some discoveries which have been made in latter ages, serving to 
advance knowledge, and to render life comfortable; we speak of 
them as the boast of human reason. But certainly no invention is 
entitled to any such degree of admiration as that of language; which 
too must have been the product of the first and rudest ages, if in¬ 
deed it can be considered as a human invention at all. 

Think of the circumstances of mankind when languages began to 
be formed. They were a wandering scattered race ; no society 
among them except families ; and the family society, too, very im¬ 
perfect, as their method of living by hunting or pasturage must have 
separated them frequently from one another. In this situation, when 
so much divided, and their intercourse so rare, how could any one 
set of sounds, or words, be generally agreed on as the signs of their 
ideas? Supposing that a few, whom chance or necessity threw to¬ 
gether, agreed by some means upon certain signs, yet by what au¬ 
thority could these be propagated among other tribes or families, so 
as to spread and grow up into a language? One would think, that in 
order to any language fixing and extending itself, men must have 
been previously gathered together in considerable numbers; society 
must have been already far advanced; and yet, on the other hand, 
there seems to have been an absolute necessity for speech, previ¬ 
ous to the formation of society. For by what bond could any mul¬ 
titude of men be kept together, or be made to join in the prosecu¬ 
tion of any common interest, until once, by the intervention of 
speech, they could communicate their wants and intentions to one 
another ? So that, either how society could form itself, previously 
to language, or how words could rise into a language, previously to 


60 


RISE AND PROGRESS 


[lect. VI. 


society formed, seem to be points attended with equal difficulty. 
And when we consider farther, that curious analogy which prevails 
in the construction of almost all languages, and that deep and subtle 
logic on which they are founded, difficulties increase so much upon 
us, on all hands, that there seems to be no small reason for referring 
the first origin of all language to divine teaching or inspiration 
But supposing language to have a divine original, we cannot, how¬ 
ever, suppose, that a perfect system of it was all at once given to 
man. It is much more natural to think, that G od taught our first 
parents only such language as suited their present occasions; leaving 
them, as he did in other things, to enlarge and improve it as their 
future necessities should require. Consequently, those first rudimen 
of speech must have been poor and narrow; and we are at lull liberty 
to inquire in what manner and by what steps, language advanced 
to the state in which we now find it. The history which I am to 
give of this progress, will suggest several things, both curious in 
themselves, and useful in our future disquisitions. 

If we should suppose a period before any words were invented 01 
known, it is clear, that men could have no other method of commu¬ 
nicating to others what they felt, than by the cries of passion, accom¬ 
panied with such motions and gestures as were farther expressive 
of passion. For these are the only signs which nature teaches all 
men, and which are understood by all. One who saw another go¬ 
ing into some place where he himself had been frightened, or ex¬ 
posed to danger, and who sought to warn his neighbour of the dan¬ 
ger, could contrive no other way of doing so than by uttering those 
cries, and making those gestures, which are the signs of fear: just 
as two men, at this day, would endeavour to make themselves be un¬ 
derstood by each other, who should be thrown together on a desolate 
island, ignorant of each other’s language. Those exclamations, 
therefore, which by grammarians are called interjections, uttered in 
a strong and passionate manner, were, beyond doubt, the first ele¬ 
ments or beginnings of speech. 

When more enlarged communication became necessary, and 
names began to be assigned to objects, in what manner can we sup¬ 
pose men to have proceeded in this assignation of names, or inven¬ 
tion of words? Undoubtedly, by imitating, as much as they could, 
the nature of the object which they named by the sound of the 
name which they gave to it. As a painter who would represent grass, 
must employ green colour; so in the beginnings of language, one 
giving a name to any thing harsh or boisterous, would of course em¬ 
ploy a harsh or boisterous sound. He could not do otherwise, if he 
meant to excite in the hearer the idea of that thing which he sought 
to name. To suppose words invented, or names given to things, in 
a manner purely arbitrary, without any ground or reason, is to sup¬ 
pose an effect without a cause. There must have always been some 
motive which led to the assignation of one name rather than an¬ 
other; and we can conceive no motive which would more generally 
operate upon men in their first efforts towards language, than a de¬ 
sire to paint by speech, the objects which they named, in a manner 


LECT. VI.] 


OF LANGUAGE. 


61 

more or less complete, according as the vocal organs had it in their 
power to affect this imitation. 

Wherever objects were to be named, in which sound, noise, or 
motion were concerned, the imitation by words was abundantly 
obvious. Nothing was more natural, than to imitate, by the sound 
of the voice, the quality of the sound or noise which any external 
object made; and to form its name accordingly. Thus, in all lan¬ 
guages, we find a multitude of words that are evidently constructed 
upon this principle. A certain bird is termed the cuckoo, from the 
sound which it emits. When one sort of wind is said to whistle , and 
another to roar; when a serpent is said to hiss; a fly to buz , and 
falling timber to crash; when a stream is said to flow , and hail to 
rattle ; the analogy between the word and the thing signified is plain¬ 
ly discernible. 

In the names of objects which address the sight only, where 
neither noise nor motion are concerned, and still more in the terms 
appropriated to moral ideas, this analogy appears to fail. Many 
learned men, however, have been of opinion, that though in such 
cases it becomes more obscure, yet it is not altogether lost; but 
that throughout the radical words of all languages, there may be 
traced some degree of correspondence with the object signified. 
With regard to moral and intellectual ideas, they remark, that in 
every language, the terms significant of them, are derived from the 
names of sensible objects to which they are conceived to be analo¬ 
gous ; and with regard to sensible objects pertaining merely to sight, 
they remark, that their most distinguishing qualities have certain 
radical sounds appropriated to the expression of them, in a great 
variety of languages. Stability, for instance, fluidity, hollowness, 
smoothness, gentleness, violence, &c. they imagine to be painted by 
the sound of certain letters or syllables, which have some relation to 
those different states of visible objects, on account of an obscure 
resemblance which the organs of speech are capable of assuming to 
such external qualities. By this natural mechanism, they imagine 
all languages to have been at first constructed, and the roots of their 
capital words formed.* 

* The author who has carried his speculations on this subject the farthest, is the 
President Des Brosses, in his “ Traite de la Formation Mechanique des Langues.” 
Some of the radical letters or syllables which he supposes to carry this expressive 
power in most known languages are, St, to signify stability or rest; FI, to de¬ 
note fluency ; Cl, a gentle descent; R, what relates to rapid motion ; C, to cavity 
or hollowness, &.c. A century before his time, Dr. Wallis, in his Grammar of the 
English Language, had taken notice of these significant roots, and represented it 
as a peculiar excellency of our tongue, that beyond all others, it expressed the 
nature of the objects which it named, by employing sounds sharper, softer, weak¬ 
er, stronger, more obscure, or more stridulous, according as the idea which is to 
be suggested requires. He gives various examples. Thus, words, formed upon 
St, always denote firmness and strength, analogous to the Latin sto ; as stand, stay, 
staff, stop, stout, steady, stake, stamp, stallion, stately, &c. Words beginning 
with Str, intimate violent force and energy, analogous to the Greek a-r^oivvo/ui j as, 
strive, strength, strike, stripe, stress, struggle, stride, stretch, strip, &ic. Thr, 
implies forcible motion: as throw, throb, thrust, through, threaten, thraldom 
Wr, obliquity or distortion ; as, wry, wrest, wreath, wrestle, wring, wrong, wran¬ 
gle, wrath, wrack. &c. Sw. silent, agitation, or lateral motion ; as. sway, swings 



rise and progress 


[lect. vi. 




As far as this system is founded in truth, language appears to bfc 
not altogether arbitrary in its origin. Among the ancient Stoic and 
Platonic philosophers, it was a question much agitated, “ Utrum 
nomina rerum sint natura, an impositione ? <pJtf £i y] dsdel by which they 
meant, whether words were merely conventional symbols ; of the 
rise of which no account could be given, except the pleasure of the 
first inventors of language? or, whether there was some principle in 
nature that led to the assignation of particular names to particular 
objects? and those of the Platonic school favoured the latter opin¬ 
ion.* * 

This principle, however, of a natural relation between words and 
objects, can only be applied to language in its most simple and pri¬ 
mitive state. Though in every tongue, some remains of it, as I 
have shown above, can be traced, it were utterly in vain to search 
for it throughout the whole construction of any modern language. 
As the multitude of terms increase in every nation, and the immense 
field of language is filled up, words, by a thousand fanciful and irre¬ 
gular methods of derivation and composition, come to deviate wide- 
fy from the primitive character of their roots, and to lose all analogy 
or resemblance in sound to the things signified. In this state we 
now find language. Words, as we now employ them, taken in the 
general, may be considered as symbols, not as imitations 5 as arbi¬ 
trary, or instituted, not natural signs of ideas. But there can be no 
doubt, I think, that language, the nearer we remount to its rise 
among men, will be found to partake more of a natural expression. 
As it could be originally formed on nothing but imitation, it would, 
in its primitive state, be more picturesque 5 much more barren in¬ 
deed, and narrow in the circle of its terms, than now 5 but as far as 
it went, more expressive by sound of the thing signified. This, 

swerve, sweep, swim. SI, a gentle fall or less observable motion ; as, slide, slip, 
sly, slit, slow, slack, sling. Sp, dissipation or expansion; as spread, sprout, 
sprinkle, split, spill, spring. Terminations in ash, indicate something acting nimbly 
and sharply ; as, crash, gash, rash, flash, lash, slash. Terminations in ush, some- 
tiling acting more obtusely and dully $ as, crush, brush, hush, gush, blush. The learn¬ 
ed author produces a great many more examples of the same kind, which seem to 
leave no doubt, that the analogies of sound have had some influence on the for¬ 
mation of words. At the same time, in all speculations of this kind, there is so much 
room for fancy to operate, that they ought to be adopted with much caution in forming 
any general theory, 

* Vid. Plat, in Cratylo. “ Nomina verbaque non posita fortuito, sed quadam vi et 
a ratione naturae facta esse, P. Nigidius in Grammaticis Commentariis docet ; rem 
u sane in philosophiae dissertationibus celehrem. In earn rem multa argumenta 
a dicit, cur videri possint, verba esse naturalia, magis quam arbitraria. Vos, in- 
c< q U it ? cum dicimus, motu quodam oris conveniente, cum ipsius verbi demonstra¬ 
te tione utimur, et labias sensim primores emovemus, ac spiritum atque animam 
“ porro versum, et ad eos quibus consermocinamur .intendimus. At contra cum 
<■ dicimus JYos, neque profuso intentoque flatu vocis, neque projectis labiis pro- 
« nunciamus ; sed et spiritum et labias quasi intra nosmet ipsos coercemus. Hoc 
“sit idem et in eo quod dicimus tu, et ego, et mihi, et iibi. Nam sicuti cum adnui- 
« mus et abnuimus, motus quodam illo vel capitis, vel oculorum, a natura rei quam 
« significat, non abhorret, ita in his vocibus quasi gestus quidam oris et spiritus 
« naturalis est. Eadem ratio est in Graecis quoque vocibus quam esse in nostris 
H aniro advert irnus. ’ ’ 

A. Geli.ius, Noct. Atticae. lib. x. cap. 4. 




LECT. VI.] 


OF LANGUAGE. 


63 


then, may be assumed as one character of the first state, or begin¬ 
nings of language, among every savage tribe. 

A second character of language, in its early state, is drawn from 
the manner in which words were at first pronounced, or uttered, by 
men. Interjections, I showed, or passionate exclamations, were the 
first elements of speech. Men laboured to communicate their feel¬ 
ings to one another, by those expressive cries and gestures which 
nature taught them. After words, or names of objects, began to be 
invented, this mode of speaking, by natural signs, could not be all at 
once disused. For language, in its infancy, must have been ex¬ 
tremely barren; and there certainly was a period among all rude 
nations, when conversation was carried on by a very few words, in¬ 
termixed with many exclamations and earnest gestures. The small 
stock of words which men as yet possessed, rendered these helps 
absolutely necessary for explaining their conceptions ; and rude, 
uncultivated men, not having always at hand even the few words, 
which they knew, would naturally labour to make themselves un¬ 
derstood, by varying their tones of voice, and accompanying their 
tones with the most significant gesticulations they could make. At 
this day, when persons attempt to speak in any language which they 
possess imperfectly, they have recourse to all these supplemental 
methods, in order to render themselves more intelligible. The plan, 
too, according to which I have shown, that language was originally 
constructed, upon resemblance or analogy, as far as was possible, to 
the thing signified, would naturally lead men to utter their words 
with more emphasis and force, as long as language was a sort of 
painting by means of sound. For all those reasons this may be as¬ 
sumed as a principle, that the pronunciation of the earliest languages 
was accompanied with more gesticulation, and with more and 
greater inflections of voice, than what we now use; there was more 
action in it; and it was more upon a crying or singing tone. 

To this manner of speaking, necessity first gave rise. But we 
must observe, that after this necessity had, in a great measure, ceas¬ 
ed, by language becoming, in process of time, more extensive and 
copious, the ancient manner of speech still subsisted among many 
nations; and what had arisen from necessity, continued to be used 
for ornament. Wherever there was much fire and vivacity in the 
genius of nations, they were naturally inclined to a mode of conver¬ 
sation which gratified the imagination so much; for an imagination 
which is warm, is always prone to throw both a great deal of action, 
and a variety of tones, into discourse. Upon this principle, Dr. 
Warburton accounts for so much speaking by action, as we find 
among the Old Testament prophets; as when Jeremiah breaks the 
potter’s vessel, in sight of the people ; throws a book into the 
Euphrates; puts on bonds and yokes; and carries out his household 
stuff; all which, he imagines,might be significant modes of expres¬ 
sion, very natural in those ages, when men were accustomed to ex¬ 
plain themselves so much by actions and gestures. In like manner, 
among the northern American tribes, certain motions and actions 
were found to be much used as explanatory of their meaning, on all 


64 


RISE and progress 


[lect. vi. 


their great occasions of intercourse with each other ; and by the 
belts and strings of wampum, which they gave and received, they 
were accustomed to declare their meaning, as much as by their dis¬ 
courses. 

With regard to inflections of voice, these are so natural, that to 
some nations, it has appeared easier to express different ideas, by va¬ 
rying the tone with which they pronounced the same word, than to 
contrive words for all their ideas. This is the practice of the Chi¬ 
nese in particular. The number of words in their language is said 
not to be great; but in speaking, they vary each of their words on 
no less than five different tones, by which they make the same word 
signify five different things. This must give a great appearance of 
music or singing to their speech. For those inflections of voice 
which, in the infancy of language, were no more than harsh or dis¬ 
sonant cries, must, as language gradually polishes, pass into more 
smooth and musical sounds; and hence is formed, what we call the 
prosody of a language. 

It is remarkable, and deserves attention, that, both in the Greek 
and Roman languages, this musical and gesticulating pronunciation 
was retained in a very high degree. Without having attended to 
this, we shall be at a loss in understanding several passages of the 
classics, which relate to the public speaking, and the theatrical en¬ 
tertainments of the ancients. It appears from many circumstances, 
that the prosody both of the Greeks and Romans, was carried much 
farther than ours; or that they spoke with more and stronger inflec¬ 
tions of voice than we use. The quantity of their syllables was 
much more fixed than in any of the modern languages, and render¬ 
ed much more sensible to the ear in pronouncing them. Besides 
quantities, or the difference of short and long, accents were placed 
upon most of their syllables, the acute, grave, and circumflex ; the 
use of which accents we have now entirely lost, but which, we know, 
determined the speaker’s voice to rise or fall. Our modern pronun¬ 
ciation must have appeared to them a lifeless monotony. The 
declamation of their orators, and the pronunciation of their actors 
upon the stage, approached to the nature of recitative in music; 
was capable of being marked in notes, and supported with instru¬ 
ments; as several learned men have fully proved. And if this was 
the case, as they have shown,among the Romans, the Greeks, it is 
well known, were still a more musical people than the Romans, and 
carried their attention to tone and pronunciation much farther in 
every public exhibition. Aristotle, in his poetics, considers the 
masic of tragedy as one of its chief and most essential parts. 

The case was parallel with regard to gestures; for strong tones, 
and animated gestures, we may observe, always go together. Ac¬ 
tion is treated of by all the ancient critics, as the chief quality in 
every public speaker. The action, both of the orators and the play¬ 
ers in Greece and Rome, was far more vehement than what we are 
accustomed to. Roscius would have seemed a madman to us. Ges¬ 
ture was of such consequence upon the ancient stage, that there is 
reason for believing, that on some occasions, the speaking and the 


LdOCT. VI.] 


OF LANGUAGE. 


65 


acting part were divided, which, according to our ideas, would form 
a strange exhibition; one player spoke the words in the proper tones, 
while another performed the corresponding motions and gestures. 
We learn from Cicero, that it was a contest between him and Ros¬ 
cius, whether he could express a sentiment in a greater variety of 
phrases, or Roscius in a greater variety of intelligible significant ges¬ 
tures. At last, gesture came to engross the stage wholly; for, under 
the reigns of Augustus and Tiberius, the favourite entertainment of 
the public was the pantomime, which was carried on entirely by mute 
gesticulation. The people were moved, and wept at it, as much as 
at tragedies; and the passion for it became so strong, that laws were 
obliged to be made, for restraining the senators from studying the 
pantomime art. Now, though in declamations and theatrical exhi¬ 
bitions, both tone and gesture were doubtless carried much farther 
than in common discourse; yet public speaking, of any kind, must, 
in every country, bear some proportion to the manner that is used in 
conversation, and such public entertainments as I have now men¬ 
tioned could never have been relished by a nation, whose tones and 
gestures, in discourse, were as languid as ours. 

When the barbarians spread themselves over the Roman empire, 
these more phlegmatic nations did not retain the accents, the tones, 
and gestures, which necessity at first introduced, and custom and 
fancy afterwards so long supported, in the Greek and Roman lan¬ 
guages. As the Latin tongue was lost in their idioms, so the charac¬ 
ter of speech and pronunciation began to be changed throughout 
Europe. Nothing of the same attention was paid to the music of 
language, or to the pomp of declamation and theatrical action. 
Both conversation and public speaking became more simple and 
plain, such as we now find it; without that enthusiastic mixture of 
tones and gestures, which distinguished the ancient nations. At the 
restoration of letters, the genius of language was so much altered, 
and the manners of the people had become so different, that it was 
no easy matter to understand what the ancients had said, concerning 
their declamations and public spectacles. Our plain manner of 
speaking in these northern countries, expresses the passions with suf¬ 
ficient energy, to move those who are not accustomed to any more 
vehement manner. But, undoubtedly, more varied tones, and more 
animated motions, carry a natural expression of warmer feelings. 
Accordingly, in different modern languages, the prosody of speech 
partakes more of music, in proportion to the liveliness and sensi¬ 
bility of the people. A Frenchman both varies his accents, and 
gesticulates, while he speaks, much more than an Englishman. An 
Italian, a great deal more than either. Musical pronunciation and 
expressive gesture, are to this day the distinction of Italy. 

From the pronunciation of language, let us proceed, in the third 
place, to consider the style of language in its most early state, and 
its progress in this respect also. As the manner in which men first 
uttered their words, and maintained conversation, was strong and 
expressive, enforcing their imperfectlv expressed ideas by cries 
K ' 9 


RISE AND PROGRESS 


[LECT. VI- 


fib 

and gestures ; so the language which they used, could be no other 
than full of figures and metaphors, not correct indeed, but iorcibie 

We are apt, upon a superficial view, to imagine, that those modes 
of expression which are called figures of speech, are among the 
chief refinements of speech, not invented till after language had 
advanced to its later periods, and mankind were brought into a pol¬ 
ished state; and that, then, they were devised by orators and rhe¬ 
toricians. The contrary of this is the truth. Mankind never em¬ 
ployed so many figures of speech, as when they had hardly any 

words for expressing their meaning. 

For, first, the want of proper names for every object, obliged them 
to use one name for many ; and of course, to express themselves 
bv comparisons, metaphors, allusions, and all those substituted forms 
of speech which render language figurative. Next, as the objects 
with which they were most conversant, were the sensible, material 
objects around them, names would be given to those objects long 
before words were invented for signifying the dispositions ot the 
mind or any sort of moral and intellectual ideas. Hence, the early 
language of men being entirely made up of words descriptive ot 
sensible objects, it became of necessity extremely metaphorical — 
For, to signify any desire or passion, or any act or feeling ol the 
mind, they had no precise expression which was appropriated to 
that purpose, but were under a necessity of painting the emotion 
or passion which they felt, by allusion to those sensible objects which 
had most relation to it, and which could render it, m some sort, 

visible to others. , , , 

But it was not necessity alone, that gave rise to this figured style. 
Other circumstances also, at the commencement of language, con¬ 
tributed to it. In the infancy of all societies, men are much un¬ 
der the dominion of imagination and passion. They live scattered 
and dispersed ; they are unacquainted with the course of things ; 
thev are, every day, meeting with new and strange objects. Fear 
andfsurprise, wonder and astonishment, are their most frequent pas¬ 
sions. Their language will necessarily partake of this character of 
their minds. They will be prone to exaggeration and hyperbole. 
They will be given to describe every thing with the strongest co¬ 
lours, and most vehement expressions; infinitely more than men 
living in the advanced and cultivated periods of society, when their 
imaginations are more chastened, their passions are more tamed, 
and a wider experience has rendered the objects of life more fa¬ 
miliar to them. Even the manner in which I before showed that 
the first tribes of men uttered their words, would have considerable 
influence on their style. Wherever strong exclamations, tones, and 
o-estures, enter much into conversation, the imagination is always 
more exercised ; a greater effort of fancy and passion is excited.— 
Consequently, the fancy kept awake, and rendered more sprightly 
by this mode of utterance, operates upon style, and enlivens it more. 

These reasonings are confirmed by undoubted facts. The style 
of all the most early languages, among nations who are in the first 


T.ECY. VI.j 


OF LANGUAGE. 


67 


and rude periods of society, is found, without exception, to be full of 
figures; hyperbolical and picturesque in a high degree. We have a 
striking instance of this in the American languages, which are known, 
by the most authentic accounts, to be figurative to excess. The Iro¬ 
quois and Illinois carry on their treaties and public transactions with 
bolder metaphors, and greater pomp and style, than we use in our 
poetical productions.* ** 

Another remarkable instance is the style of the Old Testament, 
which is carried on by constant allusions to sensible objects. Iniquity, 
or guilt, is expressed by “ a spotted garment;” misery, by “ drinking 
the cup of astonishment;” vain pursuits, by “feeding on ashes;” a 
sinful life, by “a crooked path;” prosperity, by “the candle of the 
Lord shining on our head;” and the like, in innumerable instances. 
Hence we have been accustomed to call this sort of style the orien¬ 
tal style ; as fancying it to be peculiar to the nations of the east; 
whereas, from the American style, and from many other instances, 
it plainly appears not to have been peculiar to any one region or 
climate ; but to have been common to all nations in certain periods 
of society and language. 

Hence we may receive some light concerning that seeming para¬ 
dox, that poetry is more ancient than prose. I shall have occasion 
to discuss this point fully hereafter, when I come to treat of the 
nature and origin of poetry. At present, it is sufficient to observe, 
that, from what has been said, it plainly appears that the style of all 
language must have been originally poetical; strongly tinctured with 
that enthusiasm, and that descriptive metaphorical expression, which 
distinguishes poetry. 

As language in its progress began to grow more copious, it gra¬ 
dually lost that figurative style, which was its early character. When 
men were furnished with proper and familiar names for every object, 
both sensible and moral, they were not obliged to use so many cir¬ 
cumlocutions. Style became more precise, and, of course, more 
simple. Imagination, too, in proportion as society advanced, had 
less influence over mankind. The vehement manner of speaking 


* Thus, to give an instance of the singular style of these nations, the Five Na¬ 
tions of Canada, when entering on a treaty of peace with us, expressed themselves by 
their chiefs, in the following language : “ We are happy in having buried under 

** ground the red axe, that has so often been dyed with the blood of our brethren. 
es Now, in this sort, we inter the axe, and plant the tree of peace. We plant a tree 
u whose top will reach the sun, and its branches spread abroad, so that it shall be 
c{ seen afar off. May its growth never be stifled and choaked ; but may it shade both 
<c your country and ours with its leaves ! Let us make fast its roots and extend them 
lt to the utmost of your colonies. If the French should come to shake this tree, we 
11 would know it by the motion of its roots reaching into our country. May the Great 
tl Spirit allow us to rest in tranquillity upon our mats, and never again dig up the axe 
11 to cut down the tree of peace ! Let the earth be trod hard over it, where it lies 
11 buried. Let a strong stream run under the pit, to wash the evil away out of our 
« sight and remembrance. The fire that had long burned in Albany is extinguished. 
“ The bloody bed is washed clean, and the tears are wiped from our eyes. We now 
ft renew the covenant chain of friendship. Let it be kept bright and clean as silver, 
« and not suffered to contract any rust. Let not any one pull away his arm from it.” 
These passages are extracted from Cadwallader Colden’s History of the Five Indian 
Nations : where it appears, from the authentic documents he produces, that such is 
their genuine style 



QUESTIONS. 


[LECT. VI 


m 

bv tones and gestures, began to be disused. The understanding 
was more exercised ; the fancy less. Intercourse among mankind 
becoming more extensive and frequent, clearness <?f style, m signi¬ 
fying them meaning to each other, was the chief object of attention. 
In place of poets, philosophers became the untrue ton ofmen, and 
in their reasonings on all different subjects, introduced that plainer 
and simpler style of composition which we now cah prose. Amo► 0 
the Greeks, Pherecydes of Scyros, the master of Pythagoras, is r - 
corded to have been the first who, in this sense, composed any wri¬ 
ting in prose. The ancient metaphorical and poetical dress ot lan¬ 
guage was now laid aside from the intercourse of men, and reserved 
for those occasions only, on which ornament was professedly 

StU Thus I have pursued the history of language through some of the 
variations it has undergone: 1 have considered it, in the first struc¬ 
ture and composition of words ; m the manner of uttering or pro¬ 
nouncing words ; and in the style and character of speech I have 
vet to consider it in another view, respecting the order and arrange¬ 
ment of words ; when we shall find a progress to have taken place, 
similar to what I have been now illustrating. 


QUESTIONS. 


Of the consideration of language, 
what is remarked ? In what order does 
our author propose to treat of it ? What 
does language, in general, signify ? By 
these sounds what are meant ? W T hat 
will appear from what is afterwards 
to be offered? From what does it ap¬ 
pear, that words and ideas may, in 
general, be considered arbitrary and 
conventional ? Of which, what is a 
clear proof? In what state do we now 
behold this artificial method of com¬ 
municating thought? What has lan¬ 
guage become? By what remark is 
this illustrated ? Of what has language 
become the instrument; and how is 
this also illustrated! How long has 
language been found in this refined 
state; and what is the consequence? 
To have reason for the highest asto¬ 
nishment, to what period must we 
carry our thoughts back; and on what 
must we reflect? What do we admire; 
and on what do we plume ourselves ? 
What remark follows ? In what cir¬ 
cumstances did mankind live, when 
language began to be formed ? Of this 
situation, what is remarked? What 
would one naturally think ; and why ? 
What two points seem to be attended 


with equal difficulty ? Upon considering 
what, do difficulties increase upon us; 
and for what, consequently, does there 
appear no small reason? If we admit 
that language had a divine origin, 
what can we not suppose; why; and 
what consequence follows ? Of this 
history, what is observed ? If we sup¬ 
pose that there was a period, before 
words were invented or known, what 
follows; and why? How is this illus- 
trated ? Of those exclamations, there¬ 
fore, what is remarked ? When more 
enlarged communications became ne¬ 
cessary, in what manner did men pro¬ 
ceed in the assignation of names? 
What illustrations follow ? Under what 
circumstances, could he not do other¬ 
wise ? What would be supposing an 
effect without a cause; and why ? In 
this case, what motive would operate 
most generally? Where was the imita¬ 
tion of words abundantly evident; and 
why? Thus, in all languages, what 
do we find ? How is this illustrated ? 
Where does this analogy seem to fail ? 
Many learned men, however, have 
been of what opinion ? With regard to 
moral and intellectual ideas, and. also 
with regard to sensible objects that ad- 









QUESTIONS. 


68 a 


LECY. VI.j 

dress themselves merely to the sight, 
what do they remark? How is this il¬ 
lustrated ? Of this system, what is re¬ 
marked? What question was much 
agitated among the ancient Stoic and 
Platonic philosophers? Which opinion 
did the Platonic school favour ? W 7 hen, 
oidy, can this principle of natural rela¬ 
tion be applied? Though in every 
tongue, some remains of it can be 
traced, yet what were utterly vain; 
and why ? What may words, as we 
now employ them, be considered; but 
of what can there be no doubt; and 
what remark follows? From what is a 
second character of language drawn ? 
What have been shown to have been 
the first elements of speech ? How did 
men labour to communicate their feel¬ 
ings to one another ? After words began 
to be invented, why could not this mode 
of speaking, by natural signs, be at 
once disused? W r hat rendered these 
helps absolutely necessary, for explain¬ 
ing their conceptions ? How would 
rude and uncultivated men labour to 
make themselves understood; and why? 
How is this further illustrated? To 
what would this plan also naturally 
lead ? For all those reasons, what may 
be assumed as a principle ? 

Though necessity gave rise to this 
mode of speaking, yet, what must we 
observe ? Of nations possessing much 
fire and vivacity, what is observed; 
and why? For what does Dr. War- 
burton account; and what illustration 
is given? In like manner, what were 
found to be much used among the 
northern American tribes; and how 
were they accustomed to declare their 
meaning? With regard to inflections 
of voice, what is observed ? With what 
nation, particularly, is this the practice ? 
As the number of words in their lan¬ 
guage is not great, how do they vary 
them? What appearance must this 
give to their speech; why ; and hence 
Is found what? What is remarkable, 
and deserves attention ? Without having 
attended to this, in understanding what, 
shall we be at a loss? From many cir¬ 
cumstances, with regard to the prosody 
of the Greeks and the Romans, what 
appears manifest ? Of the quantity of 
their syllables what is observed ? Be¬ 
sides quantities, what were placed up¬ 
on most of their syllables ; and of their 
use, what is remarked? How would 


our modern pronunciation have ap¬ 
peared to them? To what did the 
declamation of their orators approach; 
and of what was it capable? If this 
was the case among the Romans, of 
the Greeks what is well known ? How 
did Aristotle consider the music of 
tragedy ? Why was the case parallel 
with regard to gestures? How is ac¬ 
tion treated of by all the ancient 
critics? Of the action of the Greeks 
and Romans what is remarked ? How 
would Roscius have seemed to us? 
From the importance of gesticulation 
on the ancient stage, what have we 
reason to believe ? What do we learn 
from Cicero? Under the reigns of Au¬ 
gustus and Tiberius, what became the 
favourite entertainment of the pub¬ 
lic ? To how great an extent was it 
carried, and w T hat laws consequently 
became necessary ? What evidence 
have we that such public, entertain¬ 
ments as have been mentioned, could 
never have been relished by a nation 
whose tones and gestures were as 
languid as ours are? What effect was 
produced by the barbarians, when they 
spread themselves over the Roman em¬ 
pire ? As the Latin tongue was lost in 
their idiom, so what followed? To what 
was not the same attention paid ? 
What became more simple and plain ; 
and without what ? What is said of 
the genius of language at the restora¬ 
tion of letters ? Of our plain manner 
of speaking in these northern countries, 
what is remarked ? "What is the effect 
of more varied tones, and more anima¬ 
ted motions ? Accordingly, what effect 
is produced; and how is this illustrated? 
From the pronunciation of language, to 
what do we proceed? What reason 
have we to believe that the language 
of the ancients was full of* figures and 
metaphors ? What are we, upon a su¬ 
perficial view, apt to imagine ? How 
does it appear that the contrary of this 
is the truth ? What is the first reason 
for this? What is the second; hence, 
what follows; and why ? W’hat other 
circumstances, besides necessity, con¬ 
tributed to produce this figurative style; 
and what, consequently, follows? Of 
the style of the earliest languages, 
what is observed ? Where have we a 
striking instance of this ? What exam¬ 
ple is given ? Repeat it. W'hat is ano¬ 
ther remarkable instance ; and how is 



RISE AND PROGRESS 


68 b 

this illustrated ? Hence, to what have 
we been accustomed; and why ? From 
the American style, what plainly ap¬ 
pears? Concerning what, may we 
consequently receive some light ? On 
this subject, what, at present, is it suffi¬ 
cient to observe ? When did language 
lose this figurative character; and why? 
As style became more concise, what 
followed; and what was its influence 
on the imagination? As intercourse 
among mankind became more exten¬ 
sive, what was the chief obj ect of atten¬ 
tion ? How was prose introduced ? 
Among the Greeks, who was the first 
prose writer ; what was now laid aside 
from the intercourse of men ; and for 
what occasions was it resumed ? Thus, 
how has language been considered; 
and what remains to be done ? 


[lect. VIC 
ANALYSIS. 

1. Language. 

a. Its signification. 

b. Its present state. 

c. Its origin. 

d. The first method of communi¬ 

cating thoughts. 

E. The principle upon which lan¬ 
guage was formed. 

2. Pronunciation. 

A. Inflections. 
b. Gestures. 

3. The character ofLanguage changed. 

4. The style of early Languages. 

a. The employment of figures. 

b. These reasonings confirmed. 

c. The origin of Prose. 


LECTURE VII. 


RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE, AND OF 
WRITING. 

When we attend to the order in which words are arranged in a 
sentence, or significant proposition, we find a very remarkable dif¬ 
ference between the ancient and the modern tongues. The consi¬ 
deration of this will serve to unfold farther the genius of language, 
and to show the causes of those alterations, which it has undergone 
in the progress of society. 

In order to conceive distinctly the nature of that alteration of 
which I now speak, let us go back, as we did formerly, to the most 
early period of language. Let us figure to ourselves a savage, who 
beholds some object, such as fruit, which raises his desire, and who 
requests another to give it to him. Supposing our savage to be unac¬ 
quainted with words, he would, in that case, labour to make himself 
be understood, by pointing earnestly at the object which he desired, 
and uttering at the same time a passionate cry. Supposing him to 
have acquired words, the first word which he uttered would, of 
course, be the name of that object. He would not express himself, 
according to our English order of construction, “give me fruit;” but 
according to the Latin order, “ fruit give me“ fructum da mihi 
for this plain reason, that his attention was wholly directed towards 
fruit, the desired object. This was the exciting idea; the object 
which moved him to speak ; and of course would be the first named. 
Such an arrangement is precisely putting into words the gesture 







XECT. VII.] 


OF LANGUAGE. 


69 


which nature taught the savage to make, before he was acquainted 
with words; and therefore it may be depended upon as certain, that 
he would fall most readily into this arrangement. 

Accustomed now to a different method of ordering our words, 
we call this an inversion, and consider it as a forced and unnatural 
order of speech. But though not the most logical, it is, however, 
in one view, the most natural order; because it is the order sug¬ 
gested by imagination and desire, which always impel us to mention 
their object in the first place. We might therefore conclude, a priori , 
that this would be the order in which words were most commonly 
arranged at the beginnings of language; and accordingly we find, 
in fact, that, in this order, words are arranged in most of the an^ 
cient tongues; as in the Greek and the Latin; and it is said also, in 
the Russian, the Sclavonic, the Gaelic, and several of the Ameri¬ 
can tongues. 

In the Latin language, the arrangement which most commonly 
obtains, is, to place first in the sentence, that word which expresses 
theprincipal object of the discourse, together with its circumstances; 
and afterwards, the person or the thing that acts upon it. Thus 
Sallust, comparing together the mind and the body: “ Animi imperio, 
corporis servitio, magis utimur,” which order certainly renders the 
sentence more lively and striking, than when it is arranged according 
to our English construction ; u we make most use of the direction 
of the soul, and of the service of the body.” The Latin order 
gratifies more the rapidity of the imagination, which naturally runs 
first to that which is its chief object; and having once named it, 
carries it in view throughout the rest of the sentence. In the same 
manner in poetry: 

Justum et tenacem propositi virum, 

Non civium ardor prava jubentium, 

Non vultus instantis tyranni, 

Mente quatit solidd. 

Every person of taste must be sensible, that here the words are ar¬ 
ranged with a much greater regard to the figure which the several 
objects make in the fancy, than our English construction admits; 
which would require the “ Justum et tenacem propositi virum,” 
though undoubtedly the capital object in the sentence, to be thrown 
into the last place. 

I have said, that, in the Greek and Roman languages, the most 
common arrangement is, to place that first which strikes the imagi¬ 
nation of the speaker most. I do not, however, pretend, that this 
holds without exception. Sometimes regard to the harmony of the 
period requires a different order; and in languages susceptible of so 
much musical beauty, and pronounced with so much tone and modu¬ 
lation as were used by those nations, the harmony of periods was an 
object carefully studied. Sometimes, too, attention to the perspi¬ 
cuity, to the force, or to the artful suspension of the speaker’s mean¬ 
ing, alter this order; and produce such varieties in the arrangement, 
that it is not easy to reduce them to any one principle. But, in 
general, this was the genius and character of most of the ancient 



RISE AND PROGRESS 


[lect. vii. 


70 

languages, to give such full liberty to the collocation of words, as 
allowed them to assume whatever order was most agreeable to 
speaker’s imagination. The Hebrew is, indeed, an exception 
which, though not altogether without inversions, yet employs them 
less frequently, and approaches nearer to the English construction, 

than either the Greek or the Latin. . _ r 

All the modern languages of Europe have adopted a ditierent ar¬ 
rangement from the ancient. In their prose compositions, very lit¬ 
tle variety is admitted in the collocation of words; they are mostiy 
fixed to one order, and that order is, what may be called, the order 
of the understanding. They place first in the sentence the person 
or thing which speaks or acts ; next, its action ; and lastly, the ob¬ 
ject of its action. So that the ideas are made to succeed to one an¬ 
other, not according to the degree of importance which several 
objects carry in the imagination, but according to the oidei of nature 

an Aif English writer, paying a compliment to a great man, would 
say thus : “ it is impossible for me to pass over in silence, such re¬ 
markable mildness, such singular and unheard of clemency, and 
such unusual moderation in the exercise of supreme power. Were 
we have first presented to us, the person who speaks : ‘ It is im¬ 
possible for me next, what that person is to do, “impossible for him 

to pass over in silencer and lastly, the object which moves him so 
to do, “ the mildness, clemency, and moderation of his patron. 
Cicero, from whom I have translated these words, just reverses this 
order; beginning with the object, placing that first which was the 
exciting idea in the speaker’s mind, and ending with the speaker and 
his action. “ Tantam mansuetudinem, tarn inusitatam inauditamque 
“ clementiam, tantumque in summapotestate rerum omnium modum, 

«tacitus nullo modo prseterire possum.” (Orat. pro. Marcell.) 

The Latin order is more animated; the English more clear and 
distinct. The Romans generally arranged their words according to 
the order in which the ideas rose in the speaker’s imagination.— 
We arrange them according to the order in which the understanding 
directs those ideas to be exhibited, in succession, to the view of an¬ 
other. Our arrangement,therefore, appears to be the consequence 
of greater refinement in the art of speech ; as far as clearness m 
communication is understood to be the end of speech. 

In poetry? where we are supposed to rise above the ordinary style, 
and to speak the language of fancy and passion, our arrangement is 
not altogether so limited; but some greater liberty is allowed for 
transposition and inversion. Even there, however, that liberty is 
confined within narrow bounds, in comparison of the ancient lan- 
o-uao*es. The different modern tongues vary from one another in this 
respect. The French language is, of them all, the most determin¬ 
ate in the order of its words, and admits the least of inversion, 
either in prose or poetry. The English admits it more. But the 
Italian retains the most of the ancient transpositive character; though 
one is apt to think it attended with a little obscurity in the style of 
some of their authors, who deal most in these transpositions. 


LECT. VII.] 


OF LANGUAGE. 


71 


It is proper next to observe, that there is one circumstance in 
the structure of all the modern tongues, which, if necessary, limits 
their arrangement, in a great measure, to one fixed and determinate 
train. We have disused those differences of termination, which in 
the Greek and Latin, distinguished the several cases of nouns, and 
tenses of verbs ; and which, thereby, pointed out the mutual rela¬ 
tion of the several words in a sentence to one another, though the 
related words were disjoined, and placed in different parts of the 
sentence. This is an alteration in the structure of language, of which 
I shall have occasion to say more in the next lecture. One obvious 
effect of it is, that we have now, for the most part, no way left us 
to show the close relation of any two words to each other in mean¬ 
ing, but by placing them close to one another in the period. For 
instance; the Romans could, with propriety, express themselves 
thus : 

Extinction nymph® crndeli funere Daphnim 

l'lebant. 

Because u extinctum & Daphnim” being both in the accusative case, 
this showed, that the adjective and the substantive were related to 
each other, though placed at the two extremities of the line; and 
that both were governed by the active verb “fiebant,” to which 
66 nymphse” plainly appeared to be the nominative. The different 
terminations here reduced all into order, make M the connexion 
of the several words perfectly clear. But let us translate these 
words literally into English, according to the Latin arrangement; 
“ dead the nymphs by a cruel fate Daphnis lamentedand they 
become a perfect riddle, in which it is impossible to find any meaning. 

It was by means of this contrivance, which obtained in almost all 
the ancient languages of varying the termination of nouns and verbs, 
and thereby pointing out the concordance and the government of 
the words in a sentence, that they enjoyed so much liberty of trans¬ 
position, and could marshal and arrange their words in any way that 
gratified the imagination, or pleased the ear. When language came 
to be modelled by the northern nations, who overran the empire, 
they dropped the cases of nouns, and the different terminations of 
verbs, with the more ease, because they placed no great value upon 
the advantages arising from such a structure of language. They 
were attentive only to clearness, and copiousness of expression.— 
They neither regarded much the harmony of sound, nor sought to 
gratify the imagination by the collocation of words. They studied 
solely to express themselves in such a manner as should exhibit their 
ideas to others in the most distinct and intelligible order. And hence, 
if our language, by reason of the simple arrangement of its words, 
possesses less harmony, less beauty, and less force, than the Greek 
or Latin ; it is, however, in its meaning, more obvious and plain. 

Thus I have shown what the natural progress of language has 
been, in several material articles: and this account of the genius 
and progress of language, lays a foundation for many observations, 
both curious and useful. From what has been said in this, and the 

L 



12 


[lect. V1L 


RISE AND PROGRESS 

preceding lecture, it appears that language was at first barren m 
words, but descriptive by the sound of these words; and expressive 
in the manner of uttering them, by the aid of significant tones and 
vestures: style was figurative and poetical; arrangement was lanci- 
ful and lively. It appears, that, in all the successive changes which 
lan« , ua° , e has undergone, as the world advanced, the understanding 
has gained ground on the fancy and imagination. The progress ot 
language, in this respect, resembles the progress of age in man.— 
The imagination is most vigorous and predominant in youth; with 
advancing years, the imagination cools, and the understanding ripens. 
Thus language, proceeding from sterility to copiousness, hath, at 
the same time, proceeded from vivacity to accuracy; from fire and 
enthusiasm, to coolness and precision. Those characters of early 
language, descriptive sound, vehement tones and gestures, figurative 
styfe, and inverted arrangement, all hang together, have a mutual 
influence on each other, and have all gradually given place to arbi¬ 
trary sounds, calm pronunciation, simple style, plain arrangement. 
Language Is become, in modern times, more correct, indeed, and 
accurate; but, however, less striking and animated: in its ancient 
state, more favourable to poetry and oratory; in its present, to reason 
and philosophy. 

Having finished my account of the progress of speech, 1 proceed 
to o-ive an account of the progress of writing, which next demands 
our notice; though it will not require so full a discussion as the for¬ 
mer subject. 

Next to speech, writing is beyond doubt, the most uselul art 
which men possess. It is plainly an improvement upon speech, and 
therefore must have been posterior to it in order of time. At first, 
men thought of nothing more than communicating their thoughts 
to one another, when present, by means of words, or sounds, which 
they uttered. Afterwards, they devised this further method, of mu¬ 
tual communication with one another, when absent, by means of 
marks or characters presented to the eye, which we call writing. 

Written characters are of two sorts. They are either signs for 
things, or signs for words. Of the former sort, signs of things, are 
the pictures, hieroglyphics, and symbols, employed by the ancient 
nations ; of the latter sort, signs for words, are the alphabetical 
characters now employed by all Europeans. These two kinds of 
writing are generically and essentially distinct. 

Pictures were, undoubtedly, the first essay towards writing. Imi¬ 
tation is so natural to man, that, in all ages, and among all nations, 
some methods have obtained, of copying or tracing the likeness of 
sensible objects. Those methods would soon be employed by men 
for giving some imperfect information to others, at a distance, of 
what had happened; or for preserving the memory of facts which 
they sought to record. Thus, to signify that one man had killed 
another, they drew the figure of one man stretched upon the earth, 
and of another standing by him with a deadly weapon in his hand. 
We find, in fact, that when America was first discovered, this was 
the only sort of writing known in the kingdom of Mexico. By his- 


LECT. VII.] 


OF WRITING. 


73 


torical pictures, the Mexicans are said to have transmitted the me¬ 
mory of the most important transactions of their empire. These, 
however, must have been extremely imperfect records ; and the 
nations who had no other, must have been very gross and rude.— 
Pictures could do no more than delineate external events. They 
could neither exhibit the connexions of them, nor describe such 
qualities as were not visible to the eye, nor convey any idea of the 
dispositions or words of men. 

To supply, in some degree, this defect, there arose, in process 
of time, the invention of what are called hieroglyphical characters; 
which may be considered as the second stage of the art of writing. 
Hieroglyphics consist in certain symbols, which are made to stand 
for invisible objects, on account of an analogy or resemblance which 
such symbols were supposed to bear to the objects. Thus, an eye, 
was the hieroglyphical symbol of knowledge; a circle, of eternity, 
which has neither beginning nor end. Hieroglyphics, therefore, 
were a more refined and extensive species of painting. Pictures 
delineated the resemblance of external visible objects. Hiero¬ 
glyphics painted invisible objects, by analogies taken from the ex¬ 
ternal world. 

Among the Mexicans, were found some traces of hieroglyphical 
characters, intermixed with their historical pictures. But Egypt 
was the country where this sort of writing was most studied, and 
brought into a regular art. In hieroglyphics was conveyed all the 
boasted wisdom of their priests. According to the properties which 
they ascribe to animals, or the qualities with which they supposed 
natural objects to be endowed, they pitched upon them to be the 
emblems, or hieroglyphics, of moral objects ; and employed them 
in their writing for that end. Thus, ingratitude was denominated 
by a viper; imprudence, by a fly; wisdom, by an ant; victory, by a 
hawk; a dutiful child, by a stork; a man universally shunned, by 
an eel, which they supposed to be found in company with no other 
fish. Sometimes they joined together two or more of these hiero¬ 
glyphical characters; as, a serpent with a hawk’s head, to denote 
nature, with God presiding over it. But, as many of those pro¬ 
perties of objects which they assumed for the foundation of their 
hieroglyphics, were merely imaginary, and the allusions drawn from 
them were forced and ambiguous; as the conjunction of their charac¬ 
ters rendered them still more obscure, and must have expressed very 
indistinctly the connexions and relations of things; this sort of wri¬ 
ting could be no other than enigmatical, and confused in the highest 
degree; and must have been a very imperfect vehicle of knowledge 
of any kind. 

It has been imagined, that hieroglyphics were an invention of the 
Egyptian priests, for concealing their learning from common view*; 
and that, upon this account, it was preferred by them to the alpha¬ 
betical method of writing. But this is certainly a mistake. Hie- 
roglyphics were, undoubtedly, employed at first from necessity, not 
from choice or refinement; and would never have been thought of. 

10 


74 


risk and progress 


[lect. vii* 


if -dnhabetical characters had been known. The nature of the in¬ 
vention plainly Shows it to have been one of those gross and rude 
essays towardswriting, which were adopted m the early ages of th 
world, in order to extend farther the first method which they had 
employed of simple pictures, or representations of visible object .. 
Indeed, in after times, when alphabetical writing wasmtrodu ed into 
Fo-vDt and the hieroglyphical was, of course, fallen into disu , 
iskmownlthat the pneste still employed thehieroglyphicaUharac- 
ters as a sacred kind of writing, now become peculiar to themselves, 

Ind serving to give an air of mystery to their learning and religion 
In this state, the Greeks found hieroglyphical writrng w .en they 
began to have intercourse with Egypt; and some of their wri 
mistook this use, to which they found it applied, for the cause t 

had <nven rise to the invention. _ . . . , u 

As writing advanced, from pictures of visible objects, to hieio- 
^lvphics, or symbols of things invisible; from these latter, it advanc¬ 
ed among some nations, to simple arbitrary marks which stood for 
objects though without any resemblance or analogy to the objects 
signified!” Ofthis nature was the method of writing practised among 
the Peruvians They made use of small cords, of different colours, 
a^d by knots upon these, of various sizes, and differently ranged 
they contrived signs for giving information, and communicating then 

thoughts to one' another. . , , 

Of this nature also, are the written characters, which are.used l to 
this day throughout the great empire of China. The Chinese have 
no alphabet of letters, or simple sounds, which compose their wor s. 
But every single character which they use in writing, is significant 
ofln idea; it Fs a mark which stands for some one thing, or object. 
By consequence, the number of these characters must be immense. 
It must correspond to the whole number of objects, or ideas, which 
th“ have occasion to express; that is, to the whole number of 
words which they employ in speech; nay, it must be greater than 
the number of words; one word, by varying the tone with which 
it is spoken, may be made to signify several different things They 
are said to have seventy thousand of those written characters. To 
read and write them to perfection, is the study of a whole life, 
which subjects learning, among them, to infinite disadvantage; and 
must have greatly retarded the progress of all science. 

Concerning the origin of these Chinese characters, there have 
been different opinions, and much controversy. According to the 
most probable accounts, the Chinese writing began, like the Egyp¬ 
tian, with pictures and hieroglyphical figures. These figures being, 
in progress, abbreviated in their form, for the sake of writing them 
easily, and greatly enlarged in their number, passed, at length, into 
thosJ marks or characters which they now use, and which have 
spread themselves through several nations of the east. For we are 
informed, that the Japanese, the Tonquinese, and the Cormans, 
who speak different languages from one another, and from the in¬ 
habitants of China, use, however, the same written characters w. h 
them • and, by this means,correspond intelligibly with each other in 


EECT. VII.] 


OF WRITING. 


75 


writing, though ignorant of the language spoken in their several 
countries; a plain proof, that the Chinese characters are, like hie¬ 
roglyphics, independent of language: are signs of things, not of words. 

We have one instance of this sort of writing in Europe. Our 
cyphers, as they are called, or arithmetical figures, 1, 2, 3, 4, &c. 
which we have derived from the Arabians, are significant marks, 
precisely of the same nature with the Chinese characters. They 
have no dependence on words; but each figure denotes an object, 
denotes the number for which it stands; and, accordingly, on be¬ 
ing presented to the eye, is equally understood by all the nations 
who have agreed in the use of these cyphers; by Italians, Spaniards, 
French, and English, however different the languages of those na¬ 
tions are from one another, and whatever different names they give, 
in their respective languages, to each numerical cypher. 

As far,then, as we have yet advanced, nothing has appeared which 
resembles our letters, or which can be called writing, in the sense 
we now give to that term. What we have hitherto seen, were all 
direct signs for things, and made no use of the medium of sound, 
or words; either signs by representation, as the Mexican pictures; 
or signs by analogy, as the Egyptian hieroglyphics; or signs by in¬ 
stitution, as the Peruvian knots, the Chinese characters, and the 
Arabian cyphers. 

At length, in different nations, men became sensible of the im¬ 
perfection, the ambiguity, and the tediousness of each of these 
methods of communication with one another. They began to con¬ 
sider, that by employing signs which would stand not directly for 
things, but for the words which they used in speech for naming these 
things, a considerable advantage would be gained. For they re¬ 
flected farther, that though the number of words in every language 
be, indeed, very great, yet the number of articulate sounds, whicli 
are used in composing these words, is comparatively small. The 
same simple sounds are continually recurring and repeated; and are 
combined together, in various ways, for forming all the variety of 
words which we utter. They bethought themselves, therefore, of 
inventing signs, not for each word by itself, but for each of those 
simple sounds which we employ in forming our words; and, by 
joining together a few of those signs, they saw that it would be 
practicable to express, in writing, the whole combinations of sounds 
which our words require. 

The first step, in this new progress, was the invention of an al¬ 
phabet of syllables, which probably preceded the invention of an al¬ 
phabet of letters, among some of the ancient nations; and which 
is said to be retained to this day in ^Ethiopia, and some countries 
of India. By fixing upon a particular mark, or character, for every 
syllable in the language, the number of characters, necessary to be 
used in writing, was reduced within a much smaller compass than 
the number of words in the language. Still, however, the number 
of characters was great; and must have continued to render both 
reading and writing very laborious arts. Till, at last, some happy 
genius arose, and tracing the sounds, made by the human voice, to 


76 


RISE AND PROGRESS 


[lect. vir. 


their most simple elements, reduced them to a very few vowels and 
consonants; and, by affixing to each of these, the signs which we now 
call letters, taught men how, by their combinations, to put in writing 
all the different words, or combinations of sound, which they em¬ 
ployed in speech. By being reduced to this simplicity, the art of 
writing was brought to its highest state of perfection; and in this 
state, we now enjoy it in all the countries of Europe. 

To whom we are indebted for this sublime and refined discovery, 
does not appear. Concealed by the darkness of remote antiquity, 
the great inventer is deprived of those honours which would still be 
paid to his memory, by all the lovers of knowledge and learning. 
It appears from the books which Moses has written, that among the 
Jews, and probably among the Egyptians, letters had been invented 
prior to his age. The universal tradition among the ancients is, that 
they were first imported into Greece by Cadmus the Phoenician; 
who, according to the common system of chronology, was cotempo¬ 
rary with Joshua; according to sir Isaac Newton’s system, cotempo¬ 
rary with king David. As the Phoenicians are not known to have been 
the inventers of any art or science, though, by means of their ex¬ 
tensive commerce, they propagated the discoveries made by other 
nations, the most probable and natural account of the origin of al¬ 
phabetical characters is, that they took rise in Egypt, the first civi¬ 
lized kingdom of which we have any authentic accounts, and the great 
source of arts and polity among the ancients. In that country, the 
favourite study of hieroglyphical characters, had directed much 
attention to the art of writing. Their hieroglyphics are known to 
have been intermixed with abbreviated symbols, and arbitrary 
marks; whence, at last, they caught the idea of contriving marks, 
not for things merely, butfor sounds. Accordingly Plato (in Phaedo) 
expressly attributes the invention of letters to Theuth, the Egyptian, 
who is supposed to have been the Hermes, or Mercury, of the 
Greeks. Cadmus himself, though he passed from Phoenicia to 
Greece, yet is affirmed, by several of the ancients, to have been ori¬ 
ginally of Thebes in Egypt. Most probably, Moses carried with him 
the Egyptian letters into the land of Canaan ; and there being 
adopted by the Phoenicians, who inhabited part of that country, they 
were transmitted into Greece. 

The alphabet which Cadmus brought into Greece was imperfect, 
and is said to have contained only sixteen letters. The rest were after¬ 
wards added, according as signs for proper sounds were found to be 
wanting. It is curious to observe, that the letters which we use at 
this day, can be traced back to this very alphabet of Cadmus. The 
Roman alphabet, which obtains with us, and with most of the Eu¬ 
ropean nations, is plainly formed on the Greek, with a few variations. 
And all learned men observe, that the Greek characters, especially 
according to the manner in which they are formed in the oldest in¬ 
scriptions, have a remarkable conformity with the Hebrew or Sama¬ 
ritan characters, which, it is agreed, are the same with the Phoenician, 
or the alphabet of Cadmus. Invert the Greek characters from left 
to right, according to the Phoenician and Hebrew manner of wri- 


JJ2CT. VIT.] 


OF WRITING. 


77 


ting, and they are nearly the same. Besides the conformity of 
figure, the names or denominations of the letters, alpha, beta, gamma, 
&c. and the order in which the letters are arranged, in all the several 
alphabets, Phoenician, Hebrew, Greek, and Roman, agree so much 
as amounts to a demonstration, that they were all derived originally 
from the same source. An invention so useful and simple was gree¬ 
dily received by mankind, and propagated with speed and facility 
through many different nations. 

The letters were originally written from the right hand towards 
the left; that is, in a contrary order to what we now practise. This 
manner of writing obtained among the Assyrians, Phoenicians, Ara¬ 
bians, and Hebrews; and from some very old inscriptions, appears 
to have obtained also among the Greeks. Afterwards, the Greeks 
adopted a new method, writing their lines alternately from the right 
to the left, and from the left to the right, which was called Boustro- 
phedon; or, writing after the manner in which oxen plough the 
ground. Of this, several specimens still remain; particularly, the 
inscription on the famous Sigean monument; and down to the days 
of Solon, the legislator of Athens, this continued to be the com¬ 
mon method of writing. At length, the motion from the left hand 
to the right being found more natural and commodious, the practice 
of writing, in this direction, prevailed throughout all the countries 
of Europe. 

Writing was long a kind of engraving. Pillars, and tables of 
stone, were first employed for this purpose, and afterwards plates of 
the softer metals, such as lead. In proportion as writing became 
more common, lighter and more portable substances were employ¬ 
ed. The leaves, and the bark of certain trees, were used in some 
countries: and in others, tablets of wood, covered with a thin coat 
of soft wax, on which the impression was made with a stylus of iron. 
In later times, the hides of animals, properly prepared and polished 
into parchment, were the most common materials. Our present 
method of writing on paper, is an invention of no greater antiquity 
than the fourteenth century. 

Thus I have given some account of the progress of these two 
great arts, speech and writing; by which men’s thoughts are com¬ 
municated, and the foundation laid for all knowledge and improve¬ 
ment. Let us conclude the subject, with comparing in a few words, 
spoken language, and written* language; or words uttered in our 
hearing, with words represented to the eye ; where we shall find 
several advantages and disadvantages to be balanced on both sides. 

The advantages of writing above speech are, that writing is both 
the more extensive, and a more permanent method of communication. 
More extensive, as it is not confined within the narrow circle of those 
who hear our words, but, by means of written characters, we can 
send our thoughts abroad, and propagate them through the world; 
we can lift our voice, so as to speak to the most distant regions of 
the earth. More permanent also; as it prolongs this voice to the 
most distant ages; it gives us the means of recording our senti¬ 
ments to futurity, and of perpetuating the instructive memory of 


RISE AND PROGRESS, &c. [ LECT * VIJ 


past transactions. It likewise affords this advantage to such as read, 
above such as hear, that, having the written characters before their 
eyes, they can arrest the sense of the writer. They can pause, and 
revolve, and compare, at their leisure, one passage with another : 
whereas, the voice is fugitive and passing ; you must catch the words 
the moment they are uttered, or you lose them for ever. 

But, although these be so great advantages of written language, 
that speech, without writing, would have been very inadequate for 
the instruction of mankind ; yet we must not forget to observe, that 
spoken language has a great superiority over written language, in 
point of energy or force. The voice of the living speaker, makes 
an impression on the mind, much stronger than can be made by the 
perusal of any writing. The tones of voice, the looks and gesture, 
which accompany discourse, and which no writing can convey, ren¬ 
der discourse, when it is well managed, infinitely more clear, and 
more expressive, than the most accurate writing.. For tones, looks, 
and gestures, are natural interpreters of the sentiments of the mind. 
They remove ambiguities ; they enforce impressions ; they operate 
on us by means of sympathy, which is one of the most powerful in¬ 
struments of persuasion. Our sympathy is always awakened more, 
by hearing the speaker, than by reading his works in our closet. 
Hence, though writing may answer the purposes of mere instruction, 
yet all the great and high efforts of eloquence must be made by 
means of spoken, not of written language._^ 


QUESTIONS 


In attending to the order in which 
words are arranged in a sentence, what 
do we find ? What advantage will a 
consideration of this difference afford ? 
That we may conceive clearly the na¬ 
ture of this difference, what is neces¬ 
sary? What must we figure to our¬ 
selves ? If acquainted with words, how 
would he proceed ? Having acquired 
words, what one would he first utter ? 
How would he express himself, and for 
what reason ? Of such an arrangement, 
what is remarked ? What do we noAV 
call this order; why ; and how do we 
consider it ? Though not the most logical, 
yet why is it the most natural order ? 
What might we therefore conclude ; 
and accordingly, what do we find ? 
What arrangement, in the Latin lan¬ 
guage, most commonly obtains, and 
what example is given? What does 
the Latin order gratify? In the exam¬ 
ple here given, of what must every 
person of taste be sensible ? In the 
Greek and Roman languages, what is 
the most common arrangement ? What, 
sometimes, requires a different order; 
and what remark follows ? Sometimes, 
too, what alters this order; and what 
^effect would it produce? In general 


what was the genius and character of 
most of the ancient languages ? What 
one is an exception; and what is said 
of it ? Of the prose compositions of mo¬ 
dern languages, what is remarked; 
and what may that order be called ? 
How do they dispose of the parts of 
their sentences; and what follows? 
By what example is this remark illus¬ 
trated ? Here, what have we present¬ 
ed to us ? What order would Cicero 
have used ? How do these two orders 
compare with each other? How did 
the Romans generally arrange their 
words ? How do we arrange them ? Of 
what does our arrangement appear to 
be the consequence; and how far ? Of 
our arrangement in poetry, what is ob¬ 
served? In what order do different 
modern tongues vary in this respect ? 
What is it proper next to observe? 
What is that circumstance ? What is 
one obvious effect of this ? What illus¬ 
tration of this remark is given? By 
means of this contrivance, what did 
the ancients enjoy ? When were these 
cases of nouns and terminations of 
verbs dropped; and why? To what 
only were they attentive? What did 
they not much regard; what, solely 











QUESTIONS. 


78 a 


LECT. VII.] 

study; and hence what follows? Thus, 
what has been shown; and for what 
does it lay a foundation ? From what 
has been said in this, and the preceding 
lecture, what appears evident ? In the 
successive changes which language has 
undergone, what, also, is evident ? In 
this respect, what does the progress of 
language resemble ? How is this illustra¬ 
ted ? What were the characteristics of 
early language, and to what have they 
all gradually given place? How do 
the modern and ancient characters of 
language compare ? In its ancient 
state, to what was it most favourable; 
and to what is it most favourable in 
its modern? Having finished his ac¬ 
count of the progress of' speech, to what 
does our author next proceed; and 
what does he say of it ? Next to speech, 
what is the most useful art that men 
possess ? As it is plainly an improve¬ 
ment upon speech, what necessarily 
follows ? Of what only did men at first 
think; and what did they afterwards 
devise ? Of what two sorts are written 
characters ? What are examples of the 
former; and of the latter ? What 
were, doubtless, the first essay towards 
writing ; and why? For what purposes 
would those methods soon be employ¬ 
ed? How is this illustrated ? Where do 
we find this method to have prevailed; 
and at what time ? The memory of 
what did the Mexicans transmit by his¬ 
torical pictures ? Of these records, and 
of the nations who had no other, what 
is remarked ? What only could pic¬ 
tures delineate; and what could they 
not do? To supply, in some degree, 
this defect, what, in process of time, 
arose ; and how may they be consider¬ 
ed ? In what do hieroglyphics consist ? 
What examples are given ? What ad¬ 
vantage had hieroglyphics over pic¬ 
tures? What did pictures delineate? 
What did hieroglyphics paint; and 
how ? Among the Mexicans, what 
were found? Where was this kind of 
writing most studied, and brought to a 
regular art? In hieroglyphics, what 
was conveyed ? By what were they 
governed in forming them? How is 
this remark illustrated ? What did they 
sometimes join together; and what ex¬ 
ample is given ? Why was this sort 
of writing enigmatical and confused, 
and a very imperfect vehicle of know¬ 
ledge of any kind ? 

Who, has it been imagined, invented 

M 


hieroglyphics; and for what purpose ? 
How does it appear that this is certain¬ 
ly a mistake ? What does the nature 
of the invention plainly show it to have 
been? After alphabetical writing was 
introduced into Egypt, for what pur¬ 
pose did the priests still employ hiero- 
glyphical characters ? Who found hie- 
roglyphical writing in this state; and 
what was the consequence? As wri¬ 
ting advanced from pictures to hiero¬ 
glyphics, from this latter to what did it 
advance ? Where was this kind of wri¬ 
ting practised ? What method did they 
contrive to give information, or com¬ 
municate their thoughts to one an¬ 
other ? Where are these characters at 
present used ? As the Chinese have no 
alphabet of* letters, howare their words 
composed; and what is the conse¬ 
quence ? To what must the number of 
these characters correspond ? How 
many of them are they said to have ? 
What time does it require to learn to 
read and to write them correctly; and 
to what does this subject learning? In 
what manner, is it probable, the Chi¬ 
nese proceeded in forming these cha¬ 
racters ? What reason have we for be¬ 
lieving this to have been the case? 
What instance of this sort of writing 
have we in Europe; and whence did 
we derive it ? Of these figures, what is 
observed; and accordingly, what fol¬ 
lows? As far as we have advanced, 
what has not appeared ? Of what we 
have hitherto seen, what is observed ; 
and what examples are given? Of 
what did men at length become sensi¬ 
ble? How did they begin to consider 
that much advantage would be gain¬ 
ed ? On what did they reflect ? Of the 
same simple sounds, what is remarked? 
Of what dirl they therefore bethink 
themselves ? In this new progress, 
what was the first, step; and what is 
said of it ? How was the number of 
characters in writing reduced to a 
much smaller compass than the num¬ 
ber of words in the language ? Still, of 
the number of characters, what is ob¬ 
served? At length, by some happy 
genius, what was effected ? By being 
reduced to this simplicity, to what was 
the art of writing brought ? Of the au¬ 
thor of this sublime discovery, what is 
observed? What appears, from the 
books of Moses ? What is the tradition 
among the ancients; and with whom 
was he contemporary ? Of the Phceni- 




78 b 


QUESTIONS. [lect. vii. 


«$ians, what is said; and what infer¬ 
ence follows? In that country, to 
what had the favourite study of hiero¬ 
glyphics directed much attention ; and 
of them, what is known ? Accordingly, 
to whom does Plato attribute the in¬ 
vention of letters ? Of what nation was 
Cadmus, originally ? How, is it proba¬ 
ble, these characters were introduced 
to the Phoenicians ? How many letters 
did the alphabet of Cadmus contain; 
and how were the rest added ? What 
is it curious to observe ? Of the Roman 
alphabet, what is said; and of the 
Greek, what do all the learned observe ? 
How will the Greek and Hebrew cha¬ 
racters appear nearly the same ? What 
amounts to a demonstration that they 
were ail Originally derived from the 
same source ; and how was this inven¬ 
tion received? How were the letters 
originally written ; and where did this 
method obtain? What method was 
adopted by the Greeks ? Of this me¬ 
thod, what specimens remain; and how 
long did it continue ? At length, what 
method prevailed; and why ? What 
were at first employed for purposes of 
writing; and what several improve¬ 
ments succeeded ? When was paper 
invented ? Thus, an account of what 
has been given ; and with what is the 


subject concluded? What advantages 
have writing above speech ? Why is it 
more extensive; and why more per¬ 
manent ? What advantage does it 
likewise aflford; and why ? But, al¬ 
though these are the advantages of 
written language, yet what must we not 
forget ? Repeat the succeeding remarks, 
on the advantages of spoken language. 
Hence, what follows? 


ANALYSIS. 

1. Arrangement. 

a. The origin of arrangement. 

b. Arrangement of the Greek and 
Latin languages. 

c. Arrangement of modern lan¬ 
guages. 

a. Necessarily limited. 

2. Writing. 

Division of written characters. 

A. Signs of things. 

a. Pictures. 

b. Hieroglyphical characters. 

c. Arbitrary marks. 

B. Signs for words. 

a. The alphabet of syllables. 

b. Alphabetical characters. 

3. Comparative advantages of speech 
and writing. 


LECTURE VIII. 

STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 

After having given an account of the rise and progress of lan¬ 
guage, \ proceed to treat of its structure, or of general grammar. 
The structure of language is extremely artificial ; and there are few 
sciences in which a deeper, or more refined logic is employed, than 
in grammar. It is apt to be slighted by superficial thinkers as be¬ 
longing to those rudiments of knowledge, which were inculcated 
upon us in our earliest youth. But what was then inculcated before 
we could comprehend its principles, would abundantly repay our 
study m maturer years ; and to the ignorance of it, must be attribu¬ 
ted many of those fundamental defects which appear in writing. 

Few authors have written with philosophical accuracy on the 
principles of general grammar; and what is more to be regretted, 
fewer still have thought of applying those principles to the English 
language. While the French tongue has long been an object of 
attention to many able and ingenious writers of that nation, who 
have considered its construction, and determined its propriety with 
great accuracy, the genius and grammar of the English, to the re¬ 
proach of the country, have not been studied with equal care, or 










x-ect. viii.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 


79 


ascertained with the same precision. Attempts have been made, 
indeed, of late, towards supplying this defect; and some able wri¬ 
ters have entered on the subject; but much remains yet to be done. 

I do not propose to give any system, either of grammar in gene¬ 
ral, or of English grammar in particular. A minute discussion of 
the niceties of language would carry us too much off from other ob¬ 
jects, which demand our attention in the course of lectures. But 
I propose to give a general view of the chief principles relating to 
this subject, in observations on the several parts of which speech or 
language is composed; remarking, as 1 go along, the peculiarities 
of our own tongue. After which, I shall make some more particu¬ 
lar remarks on the genius of the English language. 

The first thing to be considered is, the division of the several parts 
of speech. The essential parts of speech are the same in all langua¬ 
ges. There must always be some words which denote the names 
of objects, or mark the subject of discourse ; other words, which de¬ 
note the qualities of those objects, and express what we affirm con¬ 
cerning them; and other words, which point out their connexions 
and relations. Hence, substantives, pronouns, adjectives, verbs, 
prepositions, and conjunctions, must necessarily be found in all lan¬ 
guages. The most simple and comprehensive division of the parts 
of speech is, into substantives, attributives, and connectives.* Sub¬ 
stantives are all the words which express the names of objects, or 
the subjects of discourse ; attributives, are all the words which ex¬ 
press any attribute, property, or action of the former; connectives, 
are what express the connexions, relations, and dependencies, 
which take place among them. Tfie common grammatical division 
of speech into eight parts ; nouns, pronouns, verbs, participles, ad¬ 
verbs, prepositions, interjections, and conjunctions, is not very lo¬ 
gical, as might be easily shown; as it comprehends, under the ge¬ 
neral term of nouns, both substantives and adjectives, which are 
parts of speech genericallyand essentially distinct; while it makes 
a separate part of speech of participles, which are no other than 
verbal adjectives. However, as these are the terms to which our 
ears have been most familiarized, and, as an exact logical division 
is of no great consequence to our present purpose, it will be better 
to make use of these known terms than of any other. 

We are naturally led to begin with the consideration of substan¬ 
tive nouns, which are the foundation of all grammar, and may be 
considered as the most ancient part of speech. For, assuredly, as 
soon as men had got beyond simple interjections, or exclamations of 

* Quintilian informs us, that this was the most ancient division. “ Turn videbit quot 
u et quae sunt partes orationis. Quanquam de numero parum convenit. Veteres 
u enim, quorum fuerant Aristoteles atque Theodictes, verba modo, et nomina, et con- 
iC vinctiones tradiderunt. Videlicet, quod in verbis vim sermonis, in nominibus mate- 
tl riam, (quia alterum est quod loquimur, alterum de quo loquimur) in convinctionibus 
“ autem complexum eorum esse judicarunt; quas conjunctions a plerisque dici scio ; 
“ sed haec videtur ex a-wfir/um magis propria translatio. Paulatim a philosophicis ac 
tl maxima a stoicis, auctus est numerus ; ac primdm convinctionibus articuli adjecti; 
« post praepositiones; nominibus, appellatio, deinde pronomen ; deinde mistum Verbo 
participium; ipsis verbis, adverbia.” Lib. i. cap. iv. 



HO 


STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE, [lect. vm. 

passion, and began to communicate themselves by discourse, the^ 
would be under a necessity of assigning names to the objects they 
saw around them, which, in grammatical language, is called the in¬ 
vention of substantive nouns.* And here, at our first setting out, 
somewhat curious occurs. The individual objects which surround 
us, are infinite in number. A savage, wherever he looked, beheld 
forests and trees. To give separate names to every one of those 
trees, would have been an endless and impracticable undertaking. 
His first object was to give a name to that particular tree, whose 
fruit relieved his hunger, or whose shade protected him fi om the 
sun. But observing, that though other trees were distinguished 
from this by peculiar qualities of size or appearance, yet that they 
also agreed and resembled one another, in certain common quali¬ 
ties, such as springing from a root, and bearing branches and leaves, 
he formed in his mind some general idea of those common quali¬ 
ties, and ranging all that possessed them under one class of objects, 
he called that whole class, a tree. Longer experience taught him to 
subdivide this genus into the several species of oak, pine, ash, and 
the rest, according as his observation extended to the several quali¬ 
ties in which these trees agreed or differed. 

But, still, he made use only of general terms in speech. For the 
oak, the pine, and the ash, were names of whole classes of objects; 
each of which included an immense number ol undistinguished in¬ 
dividuals. Here then it appears, that though the formation of ab¬ 
stract, or general conceptions, is supposed to be a difficult opeia- 
tion of the mind \ such conceptions must have entered into the 
very first formation of language. For, if we except only the proper 
names of persons, such as Ceesar, John, Peter, all the other sub¬ 
stantive nouns which we employ in discourse, are the names, not 


* I do not mean to assert, that among all nations, the first invented words were sim¬ 
ple and regular substantive nouns. Nothing is more difficult than to ascertain the pi e- 
cise steps in which men proceeded in the formation oi language. Names ior objects 
must, doubtless, have arisen in the most early stages ot speech. But, it is probable, as 
the learned author of the Treatise on the Origin and Progress of Language, has shown, 
(vol. i. p. 371, 395,) that, among several savage tribes, some of the first articulate sounds 
that were formed, denoted a whole sentence, rather than the name of a particular ob¬ 
ject ; conveying some information, or expressing some desires or fears suited to the 
circumstances in which that tribe was placed, or relating to the business they had most 
frequent occasion to carry on ; as, the lion is coming, the river is swelling, &lc. Many 
of their first words, it is likewise probable, were not simple substantive nouns, but sub¬ 
stantives, accompanied with some of those attributes, in conjunction with which they 
were most frequently accustomed to behold them ; as, the great bear, the little hut, the 
wound made by the hatchet, &c. Of all which, the author produces instances from se¬ 
veral of the American languages; and it is, undoubtedly, suitable to the natural course 
of the operations of the human mind, thus to begin with particulars the most obvious to 
sense, and to proceed, from these, to more general expressions. He likewise observes, 
that the words of those primitive tongues are far from being, as we might suppose them, 
rude and short, and crowded with consonants ; but, on the contrary, are, for the most 

part, long words, and full of vowels. 

This is the consequence of their being formed upon the natural sounds which the 
voice utters with most ease, a little varied and distinguished bv articulation : and 
he shows this to hold, in fact, among most of the barbarous languages which are 
known. 



lect. viii.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 


81 


of individual objects, but of very extensive genera, or species of 
objects; as man, lion, house, river, &c. We are not, however, to 
imagine that this invention of general, or abstract terms, requires 
any great exertion of metaphysical capacity: for, by whatever steps 
the mind proceeds in it, it is certain that, when men have once ob¬ 
served resemblances among objects, they are naturally inclined to 
call all those which resemble one another, by one common name; 
and, of course, to class them under one species. We may daily 
observe this practised by children in their first attempts towards ac¬ 
quiring language. 

But now, after language had proceeded as far as I have described, 
the notification which it made of objects was still very imperfect: 
for, when one mentioned to another in discourse, any substantive 
noun, such as, man, lion, or tree, how was it to be known which 
man, which lion, or which tree, he meant, among the many com¬ 
prehended under one name ? Here occurs a very curious, and a 
very useful contrivance for specifying the individual object intended, 
by means of that part of speech called the article. 

The force of the article consists in pointing or singling out from 
the common mass, the individual of which we mean to speak. In 
English we have two articles, a and the ; a is more general and un¬ 
limited; the more definite and special. A is much the same with 
one , and marks only any one individual of a species; that individual 
being either unknown or left undetermined; as, a lion, a king.— 
The , which possesses more properly the force of the article, ascer¬ 
tains some known or determined individual of the species; as, the 
lion, the king. 

Articles are words of great use in speech. In some languages, 
however, they are not found. The Greeks have but one article, 
o rj to, which answers to our definite, or proper article, the. They 
have no word which answers to our article «, but they supply its 
place by the absence of their article: Thus, Batf»Xsu£ signifies a 
lung; 6 BatfiXeus, the king. The Latins have no article. In the room 
of it, they employ pronouns; as, hie, ille, iste, for pointing out the 
objects which they want to distinguish. “Noster sermo,” says 
Quintilian, “ articulos non desiderat, ideoque in alias partes ota- 
«tionis sparguntur.” This, however, appears to me a defect in the 
Latin tongue: as articles contribute much to the clearness and pre¬ 
cision of language. 

In order to illustrate this, remark what difference there is in the 
meaning of the following expressions in English, depending wholly 
on the different employment of the articles; “ the son of a king. 
« The son of the king. A son of the king’s.” Each of these three 
phrases has an entirely different meaning, which I need not explain, 
because any one who understands the language, conceives it clearly 
at first hearing, through the different application of the articles a 
and the. Whereas, in Latin, “ filius regis,” is wholly undetermined; 
and to explain, in which of these three senses it is to be understood, 
for it may bear any of them, a circumlocution of several words 

11 


82 


STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE, (lect. vin. 


must be used. In the same manner, “ are you a king ?” “ are you 
“the king?” are questions of quite separate import; which, how¬ 
ever, are confounded together in the Latin phrase, u esne tu rex? 

“ thou art a man,” is a very general and harmless position; but, 
«thou art the man,” is an assertion capable, we know, of striking 
terror and remorse into the heart. These observations illustrate the 
force and importance of articles: and at the same time, I gladly 
lay hold of any opportunity of showing the advantages of our own 
language. 

Besides this quality of being particularized by the article, three 
affections belong to substantive nouns, number, gender, and case, 
which require our consideration. 

Number distinguishes them as one, or many, of the same kind, 
called the singular and plural; a distinction found in all languages, 
and which must, indeed, have been coeval with the very infancy 
of language; as there were few things which men had more frequent 
occasion to express, than the difference between one and many. 
For the greater facility of expressing it, it has, in all languages, 
been marked by some variation made upon the substantive noun; 
as we see, in English, our plural is commonly formed by the addi¬ 
tion of the letter S. In the Hebrew, Greek, and some other an¬ 
cient languages, we find not only a plural, but a dual number; the 
rise of which may very naturally be accounted for, from separate 
terms of numbering not being yet invented, and one, two, and 
many, being all, or at least, the chief numeral distinctions which 
men, at first, had any occasion to take notice of. 

Gender, is an affection of substantive nouns, which will lead us 
into more discussion than number. Gender, being founded on the 
distinction of the two sexes, it is plain, that in a proper sense, it 
can only find place in the names of living creatures, which admit 
the distinction of male and female; and, therefore, can be ranged 
under the masculine or feminine genders. All other substantive 
nouns ought to belong to what grammarians call, the neuter gender, 
which is meant to imply the negation of either sex. But, with 
respect to this distribution, somewhat singular hath obtained in the 
structure of language. For, in correspondence to that distinction 
of male and female sex, which runs through all the classes of ani¬ 
mals, men have, in most languages, ranked a great number of in¬ 
animate objects also, under the like distinctions of masculine and 
feminine. ' Thus we find it, both in the Greek and Latin tongues. 
Gladius, a sword, for instance, is masculine ; sagitta , an arrow, is 
feminine ; and this assignation of sex to inanimate objects, this 
distinction of them into masculine and feminine, appears often to be 
entirely capricious; derived from no other principle than the casual 
structure of the language, which refers to a certain gender, words 
of a certain termination. In the Greek and Latin, however, all ina¬ 
nimate objects are not distributed into masculine and feminine; but, 
many of them are also classed, where all of them ought to have 
been, under the neuter gender; as ,templum, a church; sedile, a seat. 

But the genius of the French and Italian tongues differs, in this 


jlect. viii.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 


S3 


respect, from the Greek and Latin. In the French and Italian, 
from whatever cause it has happened, so it is, that the neuter gen¬ 
der is wholly unknown, and that all their names of inanimate ob¬ 
jects are put upon the same footing with living creatures ; and dis¬ 
tributed, without exception, into masculine and feminine. The 
French have two articles, the masculine le, and the feminine la; 
and one or other of these is prefixed to all substantive nouns in the 
language, to denote their gender. The Italians make the same 
universal use of their articles il and lo, for the masculine; and la, 
for the feminine. 

In the English language, it is remarkable that there obtains a pe¬ 
culiarity quite opposite. In the French and Italian there is no 
neuter gender. In the English, when we use common discourse, 
all substantive nouns, that are not names of living creatures, are 
neuter without exception. He, she, and it, are the marks of the 
three genders; and we always use it, in speaking of any object 
where there is no sex, or where the sex is not known. The Eng¬ 
lish is, perhaps, the only language in the known world (except the 
Chinese, which is said to agree with it in this particular) where the 
distinction of gender is properly and philosophically applied in the 
use of words, and confined as it ought to be, to mark the real dis¬ 
tinctions of male and female. 

Hence arises a very great and signal advantage of the English 
tongue, which it is of consequence to remark.* Though in com¬ 
mon discourse, as I have already observed, we employ only the 
proper and literal distinction of sexes; yet the genius of the lan¬ 
guage permits us, whenever it will add beauty to our discourse, to 
make the names of inanimate objects masculine or feminine in a 
metaphorical sense; and when we do so, we are understood to quit 
the literal style, and to use one of the figures of discourse. 

For instance; if I am speaking of virtue, in the course of ordi¬ 
nary conversation, or of strict reasoning, I refer the word to no sex 
or gender; I say, “ virtue is its own reward;” or, “it is the law of 
“ our nature.” But if I choose to rise into a higher tone; if I seek 
to embellish and animate my discourse, I give a sex to virtue ; I 
say, “she descends from heaven;” “she alone confers true honour 
“ upon man ;” “ her gifts are the only durable rewards.” By this 
means we have it in our power to vary our style at pleasure. By 
making a very slight alteration, we can personify any object that 
we choose to introduce with dignity; and by this change of man¬ 
ner, we give warning that we are passing from the strict and logical, 
to the ornamented and rhetorical style. 

This is an advantage which not only every poet, but every good 
writer and speaker in prose, is, on many occasions, glad to lay hold 
of, and improve; and it is an advantage peculiar to our tongue; no 
other language possesses it. For, in other languages, every word 
Las one fixed gender, masculine, feminine, or neuter, which can, 

* The following - observations on the metaphorical use of genders, in the English lan¬ 
guage, are taken from Mr. Harris’s Hermes. 



84 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [lect. viii. 

upon no occasion, be changed; agsrt h for instance, in Greek, virtus 
in Latin, and la vertu in French, are uniformly feminine. She, 
must always be the pronoun answering to the word, whether you 
be writing in poetry or in prose, whether you be using the style of 
reasoning, or that of declamation : whereas, in English, we can ei¬ 
ther express ourselves with the philosophical accuracy of giving no 
gender to things inanimate; or by giving them gender, and trans¬ 
forming them into persons, we adapt them to the style of poetry, 
and, when it is proper, we enliven prose. 

It deserves to be farther remarked on this subject, that, when 
we employ that liberty which our language allows, of ascribing sex 
to any inanimate object, we have not, however, the liberty of mak¬ 
ing it of what gender we please, masculine or feminine; but are, in 
o-eneral, subjected to some rule of gender which the currency of lan¬ 
guage has fixed to that object. The foundation of that rule is ima¬ 
gined, by Mr. Harris, in his “ Philosophical Inquiry into the Prin¬ 
ciples of Grammar,” to be laid in a certain distant resemblance, or 
analogy, to the natural distinction of the two sexes. 

Thus, according to him, we commonly give the masculine gender 
to those substantive nouns used figuratively, which are conspicuous 
for the attributes of imparting, or communicating; which are by 
nature strong and efficacious, either to good or evil; or which have 
a claim to some eminence, whether laudable or not. Those again, 
he imagines, to be generally made feminine, which are conspicuous 
for the attributes of containing, and of bringing forth; which have 
more of the passive in their nature, than of the active; which are 
peculiarly beautiful, or amiable; or which have respect to such ex¬ 
cesses as are rather feminine than masculine. Upon these princi¬ 
ples he takes notice, that the sun is always put in the masculine gen¬ 
der with us, the moon in the feminine, as being the receptacle of the 
sun’s light. The earth is, universally, feminine. A ship, a coun¬ 
try, a city, are likewise made feminine, as receivers, or containers. 
God, in all languages, is masculine. Time, we make masculine, on 
account of its mighty efficacy; virtue, feminine, from its beauty and 
its being the object of love. Fortune is always feminine. Mr. Har¬ 
ris imagines, that the reasons which determine the gender of such 
capital words as these, hold in most other languages, as well as the 
English. This, however, appears doubtful. A variety of circum¬ 
stances, which seem casual to us, because we cannot reduce them to 
principles, must, unquestionably, have influenced the original for¬ 
mation of languages: and in no article whatever does language ap¬ 
pear to have been more capricious, and to have proceeded less ac¬ 
cording to fixed rule, than in the imposition of gender upon things 
inanimate; especially among such nations as have applied the dis¬ 
tinction of masculine and feminine to all substantive nouns. 

Having discussed gender, I proceed, next, to another remarkable 
peculiarity of substantive nouns, which, in the style of grammar, is 
called their declension by cases. Let us, first, consider what cases 
signify. In order to understand this, it is necessary to observe, that, 
after men had given names to external objects, had particularized 


lect. viil] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 


85 


them by means of the article, and distinguished them by number 
and gender, still their language remained extremely imperfect, till 
they had devised some method of expressing the relations which 
those objects bore, one towards another. They would find it of lit¬ 
tle use to have a name for man, lion, tree, river, without being able, 
at the same time, to signify how these stood with respect to each 
other; whether, as approaching to, receding from, joined with, and 
the like. Indeed, the relations which objects bear to one another, 
are immensely numerous; and therefore, to devise names for them 
all, must have been among the last and most difficult refinements of 
language. But, in its most early periods, it was absolutely necessary 
to express, in some way or other, such relations as were most im¬ 
portant, and as occurred most frequently in common speech. Hence 
the genitive, dative, and ablative cases of nouns, which express the 
noun itself, together with those relations of, to, from, with, and by; 
the relations which we have the most frequent occasion to mention. 
The proper idea then of cases in declension, is no other than an 
expression of the state, or relation which one object bears to 
another, denoted by some variation made upon the name of that 
object; most commonly in the final letters, and by some languages, 
in the initial. 

All languages, however, do not agree in this mode of expression. 
The Greek, Latin, and several other languages, use declension. The 
English, French, and Italian, do not; or, at most, use it very imper¬ 
fectly. In place of the variations of cases, the modern tongues ex¬ 
press the relations of objects, by means of the words called preposi¬ 
tions, which denote those relations, prefixed to the name of the object. 
English nouns have no case whatever, except a sort of genitive, 
commonly formed by the addition of the letter 5 to the noun; as 
when we say “Dryden’s Poems,” meaning the Poems of Dryden. 
Our personal pronouns have also a case, which answers to the 
accusative of the Latin, /, me; he, him; who, whom . There is 
nothing, then, or at least very little, in the grammar of our lan¬ 
guage, which corresponds to declension in the ancient languages. 

Two questions, respecting this subject, may be put. First, Which 
of these methods of expressing relations, whether that by declen¬ 
sion, or that by prepositions, was the most ancient usage in lan¬ 
guage? And next, Which of them has the best effect? Both methods, 
it is plain, are the same as to the sense, and differ only in form. 
For the significancy of the Roman language would not have been 
altered, though the nouns, like ours, had been without cases, provi¬ 
ded they had employed prepositions: and though, to express a dis¬ 
ciple of Plato, they had said, “ Discipulus de Plato,” like the modern 
Italians, in place of “ Discipulus Platonis.” 

Now with respect to the antiquity of cases, although they may, 
on first view, seem to constitute a more artificial method than the 
other, of denoting relations, yet there are strong reasons for think¬ 
ing that this was the earliest method practised by men. We find, in 
fact, that declensions and cases are used in most of what are called 
the mother tongues, or original languages, as well as in the Greek 


86 


STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE, [lect. vnx. 

and Latin. And a very natural and satisfying account can be given 
why this usage should have early obtained. Relations are the most 
abstract and metaphysical ideas of any which men have occasion to 
form, when they are considered by themselves, and separated irom 
the related object. It would puzzle any man, as has been well ob¬ 
served by an author on this subject, to give a distinct account ot 
what is meant by such a word as of or from, when it stands by itsell, 
and to explain all that may be included under it. The first rude in¬ 
venters of language, therefore, would not for a long while arrive at 
such general terms. In place of considering any relation in the ab¬ 
stract, and devising a name for it, they would much more easi y 
conceive it in conjunction with a particular object; and they would 
express their conceptions of it, by varying the name of that object 
through all the different cases; hominis , of a man; homim, to a man; 

homine , with a man, &c. • 

But though this method of declension was, probably, the only 
method which men employed, at first, for denoting relations, yet, m 
progress of time, many other relations being observed, besides those 
which are signified by the cases of nouns, and men also becoming 
more capable of general and metaphysical ideas, separate names 
were gradually invented for all the relations which occurred, form¬ 
ing that part of speech which we now call prepositions. Preposi¬ 
tions, being once introduced, they were found to be capable of sup- 
plying the place of cases, by being prefixed to the nominative ot 
the noun. Hence, it came to pass, that as nations were intermixed 
by migrations and conquests, and were obliged to learn and adopt 
the languages of one another, prepositions supplanted the use of 
cases and declensions. When the Italian tongue, for instance, 
sprung out of the Roman, it was found more easy and simple by the 
Gothic nations, to accommodate a few prepositions to the nomina¬ 
tive of every noun, and to say, di Roma , at Roma di Carthago , al 
Carthago , than to remember all the variety of terminations, Romas, 
Romam , Carthaginis, Carthaginem , which the use of declensions 
required in the ancient nouns. By this progress we can give a na¬ 
tural account how nouns, in our modern tongues, come to be so void 
of declension: a progress which is fully illustrated in Dr. Adam 
Smith’s ingenious Dissertation on the Formation of Languages. 

With regard to the other question on this subject, Which of these 
two methods is of the greatest utility and beauty? we shall find ad¬ 
vantages and disadvantages to be balanced on both sides. There is 
no doubt that, by abolishing cases, we have rendered the structure 
of modern languages more simple. We have disembarrassed it of 
all the intricacy which arose from the different forms of declension, 
of which the Romans had no fewer than five; and from all the ir¬ 
regularities in these several declensions. We have thereby rendered 
our languages more easy to be acquired, and less subject to the 
perplexity of rules. But, though the simplicity and ease of lan¬ 
guage be great and estimable advantages, yet there are also such 
disadvantages attending the modern method, as leave the balance, 
on the whole, doubtful, or rather incline it to the side of antiquity. 


87 


lect. viii.] STRUCTURE OP LANGUAGE. 

For, in the first place, by our constant use of prepositions for 
expressing the relations of things, we have filled language with a 
multitude of those little words, which are eternally occurring in eve¬ 
ry sentence, and may be thought thereby to have encumbered 
speech, by an addition of terms; and by rendering it more prolix, 
to have enervated its force. In the second place, we have certainly 
rendered the sound of language less agreeable to the ear, by de¬ 
priving it of that variety and sweetness, which arose from the length 
of words, and the change of terminations occasioned by the cases 
in the Greek and Latin. But, in the third place, the most material 
disadvantage is, that, by this abolition of cases, and by a similar al¬ 
teration, of which I am to speak in the next lecture, in the conjuga¬ 
tion of verbs, we have deprived ourselves of that liberty of transpo¬ 
sition in the arrangement of words, which the ancient languages 
enjoyed. 

In the ancient tongues, as I formerly observed, the different ter¬ 
minations, produced by declension and conjugation, pointed out the 
reference of the several words of a sentence to one another, without 
the aid of juxtaposition; suffered them to be placed, without ambi¬ 
guity, in whatever order was most suited to give force to the mean¬ 
ing, or harmony to the sound. But now, having none of those 
marks of relation incorporated with the words themselves, we have 
no other way left us, of showing what words in a sentence are most 
closely connected in meaning, than that of placing them close by 
one another in the period. The meaning of the sentence is brought 
out in separate members and portions; it is broken down and di¬ 
vided : whereas the structure of the Greek and Roman sentences, 
by the government of their nouns and verbs, presented the meaning 
so interwoven and compounded in all its parts, as to make us per¬ 
ceive it in one united view. The closing words of the period as¬ 
certained the relation of each member to another; and all that ought 
to be connected in one idea, appeared connected in the expression. 
Hence, more brevity, more vivacity, more force. That luggage of 
particles, (as an ingenious author happily expresses it), which we are 
obliged always to carry along with us, both clogs style, and enfeebles 
sentiment.* 


* “ The various terminations of the same word, whether verb or noun, are always 
conceived to be more intimately connected with the term which they serve to lengthen, 
than the additional, detached, and in themselves insignificant particles, which we are 
obliged to employ as connectives to our significant words. Our method gives almost 
the same exposure to the one as to the other, making the significant parts, and the in¬ 
significant, equally conspicuous ; theirs much oftener sinks, as it were, the former into 
the latter, at once preserving their use and hiding their weakness. Our modern lan¬ 
guages may, in this respect, be compared to the art of the carpenter in its rudest state ; 
when the union of the materials employed by the artisan, could be effected mly by the 
help of those external and coarse implements, pins, nails, and cramps. The ancient 
languages resemble the same art in its most improved state, after the invention of dove¬ 
tail joints, grooves, and mortices ; when thus all the principal junctions are effected, 
by forming properly the extremities or terminations of the pieces to be joined. For, 
by means of these, the union of the parts is rendered closer, wjiile that by which that 
union is produced, is scarcely perceivable.” The Philosophy of Rhetoric, by Dr. Camp¬ 
bell, vol. ii. p. 412 



88 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [iect. vnr. 

Pronouns are the class of words most nearly related to substantive 
nouns; being;, as the name imports, representatives, or substitutes, 
of nouns. /, thou, he, she, and it, are no other than an abridged 
way of naming the persons, or objects, with which we have immedi¬ 
ate intercourse, or to which we are obliged frequently to refer in 
discourse. Accordingly, they are subject to the same modifications 
with substantive nouns, of number, gender, and case. Only, witn 
respect to gender, we may observe, that the pronouns of the first and 
second person, as they are called, 1 and thou, do not appear to have 
had the distinctions of gender given them in any language; for this 
plain reason, that, as they always refer to persons who are present to 
each other when they speak, their sex must appear, and therefore 
needs not be marked by amasculine orfeminme pronoun. Rut, as the 
third person may be absent, or unknown, the distinction of gendei 
there becomes necessary; and accordingly, m English, it hath all the 
three genders belonging to it; he, she, it. As to cases, even those 
languages which have dropped them in substantive nouns, sometimes 
retain more of them in pronouns, for the sake of the greater readi¬ 
ness in expressing relations; as pronouns are words of such frequent 
occurrence in discourse. In English, most of our grammarians hold 
the personal pronouns to have two cases, besides the nominative ; a 
genitive, and accusative; I, mine, me; thou, thine, thee; he, his , 
him; who, tv hose, whom. 

In the first stage of speech, it is probable that the places of those 
pronouns were supplied by pointing to the object when present, and 
naming it, when absent. ‘ For one can hardly think that pronouns 
were of early invention; as they are words of such a partieulai and 
artificial nature. I, thou, he, it, it is to be observed, are not names 
peculiar to any single object, but so very general, that they may be 
applied to all persons, or objects, whatever, in certain circumstan¬ 
ces. It, is the most general term that can possibly be conceived, as 
it may stand for any one thing in the universe, of which we speak. 
At the same time, these pronouns have this quality, that in the cir¬ 
cumstances in which they are applied, they never denote more than 
one precise individual; which they ascertain and specify, much in 
the same manner as is done by the article. So that pronouns are, at 
once, the most general, and the most particular words in language. 
They are commonly the most irregular and troublesome words to 
the learner, in the grammar of all tongues; as being the words most 
in common use, and subjected thereby to the greatest vaiieties. 

Adjectives, or terms of quality, such as, great, little, black, white , 
yours, ours, are the plainest and simplest of all that class of words 
which are termed attributive. They are found in all languages; 
and, in all languages,must have been very early invented; as objects 
could not be distinguished from one another, nor any intercourse be 
carried on concerning them, till once names were given to their 
different qualities. 

I have nothing to observe in relation to them, except that singu¬ 
larity which attends them in the Greek and Latin, of having the 
same form given them with substantive nouns; being declined,like 


lect. viii.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 


89 


them, by cases, and subjected to the like distinctions of number and 
gender. Hence it has happened, that grammarians have made them 
to belong to the same part of speech, and divided the noun into sub¬ 
stantive and adjective ; an arrangement founded more on attention 
to the external form of words, than to their nature and force. For 
adjectives or terms of quality, have not, by their nature, the least 
resemblance to substantive nouns, as they never express any thing 
which can possibly subsist by itself; which is the very essence of 
the substantive noun. They are, indeed, more akin to verbs, which, 
like them, express the attribute of some substance. 

It may, at first view, appear somewhat odd and fantastic, that ad¬ 
jectives should, in the ancient languages, have assumed so much of 
the form of substantives; since neither number, nor gender, nor 
cases, nor relations, have any thing to do, in a proper sense, with 
mere qualities, such as good or great , soft or hard. And yet bonus> 
and magnus, and tener, have their singular and plural, their mascu¬ 
line and feminine, their genitives and datives, like any of the names 
of substances, or persons. But this can be accounted for from the 
genius of those tongues. They avoided, as much as possible, consi¬ 
dering qualities separately, or in the abstract. They made them a 
part, or appendage, of the substance which they served to distin¬ 
guish : they made the adjective depend on its substantive, and re¬ 
semble it in termination, in number, and gender, in order that the 
two might coalesce the more intimately, and be joined in the form 
of expression, as they were in the nature of things. The liberty of 
transposition, too, which those languages indulged, required such a 
method as this to be followed. For allowing the related words of a 
sentence to be placed at a distance from each other, it required the 
relation of adjectives to their proper substantives to be pointed out, 
by such similar circumstances of form and termination, as, accord¬ 
ing to the grammatical style, should show their concordance. When 
I say in English, the “ Beautiful wife of a brave man,” the juxta¬ 
position of the words prevents all ambiguity. But when I say in 
Latin, “ Formosa fortis viri uxorit is only the agreement, in 
gender, number, and case, of the adjective “ formosa ,” which is the 
first word of the sentence, with the substantive “ uxor” which is the 
last word that declares the meaning. 


QUESTIONS. 


After having; given an account of 
the rise and progress of language, to 
what does our author proceed ? Of the 
structure of language, and of its com¬ 
parison with other sciences, what is 
remarked ? Why is it apt to be slighted 
by superficial thinkers ? To the igno¬ 
rance of what was then inculcated, 
what is to be attributed? On what 
have few authors written with philo¬ 
sophical accuracy; and what is still 


more to be regretted? How does the 
attention of the French and English 
to this subject compare? What has 
lately been attempted; and how have 
they succeeded ? What is not our au¬ 
thor’s purpose; and why not ? Of' what 
does he propose to give a general view; 
and how ? What is the first thing to 
be considered? Of the essential parts 
of speech in all languages, what is ob¬ 
served ? How is this remark illustrated; 





89 a 


QUEST 

and hence, what follows ? What is the 
most simple a nd comprehensive division 
of the parts of speech? How are these 
respectively classed? Of the common 
grammatical division of speech into 
eight parts, what is observed; and 
why ? Why, then, will it be better to 
make use of these known terms, than 
of any others? With what are we na¬ 
turally led to begin; and why ? What 
here occurs; and why? A savage, be¬ 
holding trees in every direction, found 
what to be an impracticable underta¬ 
king? What was his first object? By 
what was he led to form, in his mind, 
some general ideas of the common 
qualities of all trees? What did'longer 
experience teach him ? To what disad¬ 
vantage was he still subject; and why? 
Hence, then, what appears evident? 
How is this illustrated ? What, howe¬ 
ver, are we not to imagine ; and why 
not? Where is this daily practised? 
Why was the notification which lan¬ 
guage made of objects, still very im¬ 
perfect ? Here, what useful and very 
curious contrivance occurs? In what 
does the force of the article consist ? In 
English, how many articles have we? 
Define them. A, is much the same 
with what, and what does it mark? 
Of the article the , what is observed ? 
What article, only, have the Greeks, 
and to what does it answer? How do 
they supply the place of our article a ? 
How is this illustrated ? As the Latins 
had no article, how did they supply its 
place ? Why does this appear to be a 
defect in the Latin tongue? How is 
this illustrated? Of each of these 
phrases, what is remarked ? Of u filius 
regis,” what is observed; and to ex¬ 
plain in which of these senses it is to be 
understood, what is necessary ? To il¬ 
lustrate the force and importance of the 
article, what further examples are 
given ? Of showing what, does our au¬ 
thor gladly lay hold of any opportuni¬ 
ty ? What other affections belong to 
substantive nouns ? How does number 
distinguish them ? Of this distinction 
what is -said; and why must it have 
been coeval with the very infancy of 
language ? For the greater facility of 
expressing it, by what has it, in all lan¬ 
guages been marked? In what lan¬ 
guages do we find a dual number; and 
how may its origin be accounted for ? 
Of gender, what is remarked ? Why 
is it, in its proper sense, confined to the 


"IONS. {LECT. VIII, 

names of living creatures; and there¬ 
fore, what follows? To what ought 
all other substantive nouns belong; 
and what is it meant to imply ? With 
respect to this distribution, what has 
obtained ? How is this remark illustra¬ 
ted? What examples are given ? Of 
this assignation of sex to inanimate 
objects, what is remarked? What is 
observed of the gender of inanimate 
objects in the Greek and Latin lan¬ 
guages? How do the French and 
Italian tongues differ from them in this 
respect? In the latter, how is the gen¬ 
der of nouns designated ? In the Eng¬ 
lish language, what peculiarity ob¬ 
tains? What are the marks of the 
three genders; and when is it used ? 
In this respect, what advantage has 
the English language over all others, 
the Chinese excepted ? What does the 
genius of it permit? What example 
of illustration is given ? By this means, 
what have we it in our power to do; 
and how? Of this advantage, what is 
further observed ; and why? What in¬ 
stances are mentioned? In English, 
how can we avoid this difficulty ? 
What deserves further to be remarked? 
Where is the foundation of this rule 
imagined to be laid ? Thus, according 
to him, to what substantive nouns, used 
figuratively, do we give the masculine 
gender; and to what the feminine? 
Upon these principles, of what does he 
take, notice? What does Mr. Harris 
further imagine ? W hy does this ap¬ 
pear doubtful ? 

Having discussed gender, to what 
does our author next proceed ? To un¬ 
derstand what case signifies, what is 
it necessary to observe? What would 
they find of little use ? Of the relation 
which objects bear to one another, what 
is observed ; and what follows ? But, 
in its earliest periods, what was neces¬ 
sary; and hence, what cases were 
found ? What, then, is the proper idea 
of cases in declension ? What evidence 
have we that all languages do not agree 
in this mode of expression? How do 
modern tongues express the relations 
of objects ? What case only, have Eng¬ 
lish nouns; and how is it formed? 
What, in our language answers to the 
accusative casein Latin? What is there 
not, then, in our language ? What two 
questions, therefore, concerning this 
subject, maybe put ? Of both methods, 
what is remarked; and why? Which 





QUESTIONS. 


89 b 


LECT. VIII.J 

was the earliest method practised by 
men ? Where do we, in fact, find that 
declensions and cases are used ? What 
natural account can be given,* why this 
usage should have early obtained? 
What has been well observed, by our 
author, on this subject ? What infe¬ 
rence, therefore, follows ? How would 
they most naturally conceive the rela¬ 
tions of a thing; and how would they 
express their conceptions of it? IIovv 
were separate names invented, to ex¬ 
press the relations which occurred; and 
what are they called? Prepositions be¬ 
ing once introduced, how were they 
found to be capable of supplying the 
place of cases; and hence, what came 
to pass? How is this illustrated? By 
this progress, of what can we give a 
natural account? With regard to the 
other question on this subject, what 
shall we find? What effect has been 
produced, by the abolition of cases? 
Of what have we disembarrassed it; 
and how have we thereby rendered it ? 
Notwithstanding these advantages, yet 
what disadvantages, in the first place, 
leave the balance inclining to the side 
of antiquity? What in the second 
place ? But, in the third place, what is 
the most material disadvantage? In 
the ancient tongues, what did the dif¬ 
ferent terminations point out; and how 
did it suffer them to be placed ? In ex¬ 
pressing relations, what method only 
have we now left ? How is the meaning 
of a sentence brought out ? How did 
the structure of the Greek and Roman 
sentences express their meaning ? How 
was the relation of each member as¬ 
certained ; and hence, what was pro¬ 
duced ? What are pronouns ? Of them, 
what is remarked ; and accordingly, to 
what are they subject ? Why have not 
I and thou had the distinctions of gen¬ 
der given to them in any language ? 
Why is the distinction of gender neces¬ 
sary in the third person? Of the cases of 


pronouns, what is remarked? In English, 
what cases have pronouns ? How is it 
probable the places of pronouns were 
supplied, in the first stage of speech; and 
why ? Of /, thou, he, and it, what is to be 
observed? Of it, what is remarked; and 
why ? W hat other quality have these 
pronouns; so that what follows ? Why 
are they troublesome to the learner? Of 
adjectives, what is remarked? Where 
are they found; and why must they 
have been early invented? What, only, 
is to be observed, in relation to them ? 
Hence, what has happened; and on 
what is this arrangement founded? 
Why have not adjectives the least re¬ 
semblance to substantive nouns? To 
what are they more akin ? What may, 
at first view, appear somewhat odd and 
fantastic; and why ? How can this be 
accounted for ? What did they avoid ; 
and what did they make them? On 
what did they make the adjective de¬ 
pend; and why? What did the liberty 
of transposition require, and for what 
reason ? How is this illustrated ? 


ANALYSIS. 

The parts of Speech. 

1. Articles, 

a. The indefinite article. 

b. The definite article. 

c. The importance of the article 

illustrated. 

2. Substantive nouns. 

a. Number. 

b. Gender. 

a. Its philosophical applica¬ 
tion. 

h. Mr. Harris’s Theory. 

c. Case. 

a. Its signification. 

b. Its variations. 

(a.) By declension. 

( b.) By prepositions. 

3. Pronouns. 

a. Their origin. 

4. Adjectives. 


LECTURE IX. 

STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE.—ENGLISH TONGUE. 

Of the whole class of words that are called attributive, indeed, 
of all the parts of speech, the most complex, by far, is the verb. It 
is chiefly in this part of speech, that the subtile and profound meta¬ 
physic of language appears ; and, therefore, in examining the na¬ 
ture and different variations of the verb, there might be room for 














90 


STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [lect. ix, 

ample discussion. But as I am sensible that such grammatical dis¬ 
cussions, when they are pursued far, become intricate and obscure, 

I shall avoid dwelling any longer on this subject than seems abso¬ 
lutely necessary. . 

The verb is so far of the same nature with the adjective, that it 
expresses, like it, an attribute, or property, of some person or thing. 
But it docs more than this. For, in all verbs, in every language, 
there are no less than three things implied at once; the attribute 
of some substantive, an affirmation concerning that attribute, and 
time. Thus, when I say, ‘ the sun shineth/ shining is the attribute 
ascribed to the sun; the present time is marked; and an affirmation 
is included, that this property of shining belongs, at that time, to 
the sun. The participle ‘shining/ is merely an adjective, which 
denotes an attribute or property, and also expresses time; but car¬ 
ries no affirmation. The infinitive mood, ‘to shine, may be called 
the name of the verb; it carries neither time nor affirmation; but 
simply expresses that attribute, action, or state of things, which is to 
be the subject of the other moods and tenses. Hence the infinitive 
often carries the resemblance of a substantive noun; and both in 
English and Latin, is sometimes constructed as such. As, ‘ scire 
tuum nihil est.’ ‘ Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.’ And, in 
English, in the same manner: ‘To write well is difficult; to speak 
eloquently is still more difficult/ But as, through all the other ten¬ 
ses and moods, the affirmation runs, and is essential to them; ‘ the 
sun shineth, was shining, shone, will shine, would have shone, &c. 
the affirmation seems to be that which chiefly distinguishes the verb 
from the other parts of speech, and gives it its most conspicuous 
power. Hence there can be no sentence, or complete proposition, 
without a verb either expressed or implied. For, whenever we 
speak, we always mean to assert,that something is, or is not; and the 
word which carries this assertion, or affirmation, is a verb. From 
this sort of eminence belonging to it, this part of speech hath re¬ 
ceived its name, verb, from the Latin verbam, or the word, by way of 
distinction. 

Verbs, therefore, from their importance and necessity in speech, 
must have been coeval with men’s first attempts towards the forma¬ 
tion of language; though, indeed, it must have been the work of 
long time, to rear them up to that accurate and complex structure 
which they now possess. It seems very probable, as Dr. Smith has 
suggested, that the radical verb, or the first form of it, in most lan¬ 
guages, would be, what we now call the impersonal verb. ‘ It rains; 
it thunders; it is light; it is agreeable / and the like; as this is the 
very simplest form of the verb, and merely affirms the existence of 
an event, or of a state of things. By degrees, after pronouns were 
invented, such verbs became personal, and were branched out into 
all the variety of tenses and moods. 

The tenses of the verb are contrived to imply the several distinc¬ 
tions of time. Of these I must take some notice, in order to show 
the admirable accuracy with which language is constructed. We 
think commonly of no more than the three great divisions of time, 


lect. ix.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 


91 

into the past, the present, and the future; and we might imagine, 
that if verbs had been so contrived, as simply to express these, no 
more was needful. But language proceeds with much greater subtilty. 
It splits time into its several moments. It considers time as never 
standing still, but always flowing ; things past, as more or less per¬ 
fectly completed; and things future, as more or less remote, by differ¬ 
ent gradations. Hence the great variety of tenses in most tongues. 

The present may, indeed, be always considered as one indivisible 
point, susceptible of no variety. “ I write, or, I am writing; scribo” 
But it is not so with the past. There is no language so poor, but it 
hath two or three tenses to express the varieties of it. Ours hath 
no fewer than four. 1. A past action may be considered as left un¬ 
finished ; which makes the imperfect tense, u I was writing, scribe- 
barn.” 2. As just now finished. This makes the proper perfect 
tense, which, in English, is always expressed by the help of the aux¬ 
iliary verb, «I have written.” 3. It may be considered as finished 
some time ago; the particular time left indefinite. “ I wrote, scrip- 
si ;” which may either signify, “ I wrote yesterday, or, I wrote a 
twelvemonth ago.” This is what grammarians call an aorist, or in¬ 
definite past. 4. It may be considered as finished before something 
else, which is also past. This is the plusquamperfect. “ I had writ¬ 
ten ; scripseram. I had written before I received his letter.” 

Here we observe with some pleasure, that we have an advantage 
over the Latins, who have only three varieties upon the past time. 
They have no proper perfect tense, or one which distinguishes an 
action just now finished, from an action that was finished some time 
ago. In both these cases they must say, “ scripsi .” Though there 
be a manifest difference in the tenses, which our language express¬ 
es, by this variation, “ I have written,” meaning, I have just now 
finished writing; and, “ I wrote,” meaning at some former time, 
since which, other things have intervened. This difference the 
Romans have no tense to express; and, therefore, can only do it by 
a circumlocution. 

The chief varieties in the future time are two ; a simple or inde¬ 
finite future; i I shall write; scribam and a future, relating to 
something else, which is also future. ( I shall have written; scrip - 
sero.’ I shall have written before he arrives.* 

Besides tenses, or the power of expressing times, verbs admit the 
distinction of voices, as they are called, the active and the passive; 
according as the affirmation respects something that is done, or some¬ 
thing that is suffered; ‘ I love, or I am loved. 5 They admit, also, 
the distinction of moods, which are designed to express the affirma¬ 
tion, whether active or passive, under different forms. The indica¬ 
tive mood, for instance, simply declares a proposition, ‘ I write; I 
have written; 5 the imperative requires, commands, threatens, ‘ write 
thou; let him write. 5 The subjunctive expresses the proposition 


* On the tenses of the verbs, Mr. Harris’s Hermes may be consulted, by such as de¬ 
sire to see them scrutinized with metaphysical accuracy ; and also the Treatise on thp 
Origin and Progress of Language, vol. ii. p. 125. 



92 


STRUCTURE OP LANGUAGE. [lect. ix. 


under the form of a condition, or in subordination to some other 
thing, to which a reference is made, 4 1 might write, I could write, 

I should write, if the case were so and so.’ This manner of ex¬ 
pressing an affirmation, under so many different forms, together 
also with the distinction of the three persons, I, thou , and he, con¬ 
stitutes what is called the conjugation of verbs, which makes so 
great a part of the grammar of all languages. 

It now 1 clearly appears, as I before observed, that, of all the parts 
of speech, verbs are, by far, the most artificial and complex. Con¬ 
sider only, how many things are denoted by this single Latin word 
i amavissem, I would have loved.’ First, The person who speaks, 4 I. 
Secondly, An attribute or action of that person, 4 loving.’ Third¬ 
ly, An affirmation concerning that action. Fourthly, The past 
time denoted in that affirmation, 4 have loved :’ and, Fifthly, A con¬ 
dition, on which the action is suspended, 4 would have loved.’ It 
appears curious and remarkable, that words of this complex import, 
and with more or less of this artificial structure, are to be found, 
as far as we know, in all languages of the world. 

Indeed,the form of conjugation, or the manner of expressing all 
these varieties in the verb, differs greatly in different tongues. Con¬ 
jugation is esteemed most perfect in those languages which,by vary¬ 
ing either the termination or the initial syllable of the verb,express 
the greatest number of important circumstances, without the help of 
auxiliary words. In the oriental tongues, the verbs are said to have 
few tenses, or expressions of time; but then their modes are so con¬ 
trived as to express a great variety of circumstances and relations. 
In the Hebrew, for instance, they say, in one word, without the 
help of any auxiliary, not only 4 1 have taught,’ but, 4 1 have taught 
exactly, or often ; I have been commanded to teach ; I have taught 
myself.’ The Greek, which is the most perfect of all the known 
tongues, is very regular and complete in all the tenses and moods. 
The Latin is formed on the same model, but more imperfect; es¬ 
pecially in the passive voice, which forms most of the tenses by the 
help of the auxiliary 4 sum.’ 

In all the modern European tongues, conjugation is very defec¬ 
tive. They admit few varieties in the termination of the verb it¬ 
self; but have almost constant recourse to their auxiliary verbs, 
throughout all the moods and tenses, both active and passive. Lan¬ 
guage has undergone a change in conjugation, perfectly similar to 
that which I showed in the last lecture, it underwent with respect 
to declension. As prepositions, prefixed to the noun, superseded 
the use of cases; so the two great auxiliary verbs, to have, and to 
be, with those other auxiliaries which we use in English, do, shall, 
will, may, and can , prefixed to the participle, supersede, in a great 
measure, the different terminations of moods and tenses, which form¬ 
ed the ancient conjugations. 

The alteration, in both cases, was owing to the same cause, and 
will be easily understood, from reflecting on what was formerly ob¬ 
served. The auxiliary verbs are, like prepositions, words of a very 
general and abstract nature. They imply the different modifications 


J.ECT. ix. j STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 


93 


of simple existence, considered alone, and without reference to any 
particular thing. In the early state of speech, the import of them 
would be incorporated, with every particular verb in its tenses 
and moods, long before words w'ere invented for denoting such 
abstract conceptions of existence, alone, and by themselves. But 
after those auxiliary verbs came, in the progress of language, to 
be invented and known, and to have tenses and moods given to them 
like other verbs; it was found, that as they carried in their nature 
the force of that affirmation which distinguishes the verb, thfey might, 
by being joined with the participle which gives the meaning of the 
verb, supply the place of most of the moods and tenses. Hence, 
as the modern tongues began to rise out of the ruins of the ancient, 
this method established itself in the new formation of speech. Such 
words, for instance, as am, was, have, shall, being once familiar, it 
appeared more easy to apply these to any verb whatever; as, lam 
loved; I was loved; l have loved; than to remember that variety of 
terminations which were requisite in conjugating the ancient verbs, 
amor, amahar, amavi, fyc. Two or three varieties only in the termi¬ 
nation of the verb, were retained, as, love, loved, loving; and all the 
rest were dropt. The consequence, however, of this practice, was 
the same as that of abolishing declensions. It rendered language 
more simple and easy in its structure; but withal, more prolix, and 
less graceful. This finishes all that seemed most necessary to be 
observed with respect to verbs. 

The remaining parts of speech, which are called the indeclinable 
parts, or that admit of no variations, will not detain us long. 

Adverbs are the first that occur. These form a very numerous 
class of words in every language, reducible, in general, to the head 
of attributives; as they serve to modify, or to denote some circum¬ 
stance of an action or of a quality, relative to its time, place, order, 
degree, and the other properties of it, which we have occasion to 
specify. They are, for the most part, no more than an abridged mode 
of speech, expressing, by one word, what might, by a circumlocu¬ 
tion, be resolved into two or more words belonging to the other parts 
of speech. ‘Exceedingly,’ for instance, is the same as ‘in a high 
degree;’ ‘bravely,’ the same as, ‘with bravery or valour;’ ‘here,’ 
the same as, ‘in this place;’ ‘often, and seldom,’ the same as, ‘for 
many and for few times,’ and so of the rest. Hence, adverbs may 
be conceived as of less necessity, and of later introduction into the 
system of speech, than many other classes of words; and accordingly, 
the great body of them are derived from other words formerly es¬ 
tablished in the language. 

Prepositions and conjunctions, are words more essential to dis¬ 
course than the greatest part of adverbs. They form that class of 
words, called connectives, without which there could be no lan¬ 
guage ; serving to express the relations which things bear to one 
another, their mutual influence, dependencies, and coherence; 
thereby joining words together into intelligible and significant pro¬ 
positions. Conjunctions are generally employed for connecting sen¬ 
tences, or members of sentences ; as, and , because , although , and 


94 


STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [lect. ix. 


the like. Prepositions are employed for connecting words by show¬ 
ing the relation which one substantive noun bears to another; as, of, 
from, to, above, below, fyc. Of the force of these I had occasion to 
speak before, when treating of the cases and declensions of sub¬ 
stantive nouns. 

It is abundantly evident, that all these connective particles must 
be of the greatest use in speech ; seeing they point out the relations 
and transitions by which the mind passes from one idea to another. 
They are the foundation of all reasoning, which is no other thing 
than the connexion of thoughts. And, therefore, though among 
barbarous nations, and in the rude uncivilized ages of the world, the 
stock of these words might be small, it must always have increased, 
as mankind advanced in the arts of reasoning and reflection. The 
more that any nation is improved by science, and the more perfect 
their language becomes, we may naturally expect that it will abound 
more with connective particles; expressing relations of things, and 
transitions of thought, which had escaped a grosser view. Accord¬ 
ingly, no tongue is so full of them as the Greek, in consequence of 
the acute and subtile genius of that refined people. In every lan¬ 
guage, much of the beauty and strength of it depends on the pro¬ 
per use of conjunctions, prepositions, and those relative pronouns, 
which also ser,ve the same purpose of connecting the different parts 
of discourse. It is the right, or wrong management of these, which 
chiefly makes discourse appear firm and compacted, or disjointed 
and loose; which carries it on its progress with a smooth and even 
pace, or renders its march irregular and desultory. 

I shall dwell no longer on the general construction of language. 
Allow me, only, before I dismiss the subject, to observe, that dry and 
intricate as it may seem to some, it is, however, of great importance, 
and very nearly connected with the philosophy of the human mind. 
For, if speech be the vehicle, or interpreter of the conceptions of 
our minds, an examination of its structure and progress cannot but 
unfold many things concerning the nature and progress of our con¬ 
ceptions themselves, and the operations of our faculties; a subject 
that is always instructive to man. ‘Nequis/ says Quintilian, an au¬ 
thor of excellent judgment, ‘nequis tanquam parva fastidiat gram- 
matices elementa. Non quia magnm sit operae consonantes a vocali- 
bus discernere, easque in semivocalium numerum, mutarumque par- 
tiri, sed quia interiora velut sacri hujus adeuntibus, apparebit multa 
rerum subtilitas, quae non modo acuere ingenia puerilia, sed exercere 
altissimam quoque eruditionem ac scientiam possit. ? * i. 4. 

Let us now come nearer to our own language. In this, and the 
preceding lecture, some observations have already been made on its 

* “ Let no man despise, as inconsiderable, the elements of grammar, because it may 
seem to him a matter of small consequence, to show the distinction between vowels and 
consonants, and to divide the latter into liquids and mutes. But they who penetrate 
into the innermost parts of this temple of science, will there discover such refinement 
and subtilty of matter, as is not only proper to sharpen the understandings of young 
men, but sufficient to give exercise for the most profound knowledge and erudition ” 




lect. ix.] THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 


95 


structure. But it is proper that we should be a little more particu¬ 
lar in the examination of it. 

The language which is, at present, spoken throughout Great Bri¬ 
tain, is neither the ancient primitive speech of the island, nor de¬ 
rived from it; but is altogether of foreign origin. The language of 
the first inhabitants of our island, beyond doubt, was the Celtic, or 
Gaelic, common to them with Gaul; from which country it appears, 
by many circumstances, that Great Britain was peopled. This Celtic 
tongue, which is said to be very expressive and copious, and is, pro¬ 
bably, one of the most ancient languages in the world, obtained once 
in most of the western regions of Europe. It was the language of Gaul, 
of Great Britain, of Ireland, and, very probably, of Spain also ; till, 
in the course of those revolutions which, by means of the con¬ 
quests, first, of the Romans, and afterwards, of the northern nations, 
changed the government, speech, and, in a manner, the whole face 
of Europe, this tongue was gradually obliterated ; and now subsists 
only in the mountains of Wales, in the Highlands of Scotland, and 
among the wild Irish. For the Irish, the Welch, and the Erse, are 
no other than different dialects of the same tongue, the ancient Celtic. 

This, then, was the language of the primitive Britons, the first 
inhabitants that we know of in our island; and continued so till 
the arrival of the Saxons in England, in the year of our Lord 450 ; 
who, having conquered the Britons, did not interm'x with them, 
but expelled them from their habitations, and drove them, together 
with their language, into the mountains of Wales. The Saxons were 
one of those northern nations that overran Europe; and their 
tongue, a dialect of the Gothic or Teutonic, altogether distinct from 
the Celtic, laid the foundation of the present English tongue. With 
some intermixture of Danish, a language, probably, from the same 
root with the Saxon, it continued to be spoken throughout the 
southern part of the island, till the time of William the Conqueror. 
He introduced his Norman, or French, as the language of the court, 
which made a considerable change in the speech of the nation ; and 
the English which was spoken afterwards, and continues to be spo¬ 
ken now, is a mixture of the ancient Saxon, and this Norman 
French, together with such new and foreign words as commerce 
and learning have, in progress of time, gradually introduced. 

The history of the English language can, in this manner, be 
clearly traced. The language spoken in the Low Countries of Scot¬ 
land, is now, and has been for many centuries, no other than a dia¬ 
lect of the English. How, indeed, or by what steps, the ancient 
Celtic tongue came to be banished from the Low Country in Scot¬ 
land, and to make its retreat into the Highlands and islands, can¬ 
not be so well pointed out, as how the like revolution was brought 
about in England. Whether the southernmost part of Scotland was 
once subject to the Saxons, and formed a part of the kingdom of 
Northumberland; or whether the great number of English exiles 
that retreated into Scotland, upon the Norman conquest, and upon 
other occasions, introduced into that country their own language. 


96 


THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. [lect. ix. 


which afterwards, by the mutual intercourse of the two nations, 
prevailed over the Celtic, are uncertain and contested points, the 
discussion of which would lead us too far from our subject. 

From what has been said, it appears that the Teutonic dialect is 
the basis of our present speech. It has been imported among us in 
three different forms, the Saxon, the Danish, and the Norman ; all 
which have mingled together in our language. A very great num¬ 
ber of our words, too, are plainly derived from the Latin. These 
we had not directly from the Latin, but most of them, it is probable, 
entered into our tongue, through the channel of that Norman French, 
which William the Conqueror introduced. For, as the Romans had 
long been in full possession of Gaul, the language spoken in that 
country, when it was invaded by the Franks and Normans, was a sort 
of corrupted Latin, mingled with Celtic, to which was given the 
name of Romanshe : and as the Franks and Normans did not, like 
the Saxons in England, expel the inhabitants, but, after their victo¬ 
ries, mingled with them; the language of the country became a 
compound of the Teutonic dialect imported by these conquerors, 
and of the former corrupted Latin. Hence, the French language 
has always continued to have a very considerable affinity with the 
Latin ; and hence, a great number of words of Latin origin, which 
were in use among the Normans in France, were introduced into 
our tongue at the conquest; to which, indeed, many have since 
been added, directly from the Latin, in consequence of the great 
diffusion of Roman literature throughout all Europe. 

From the influx of so many streams, from the junction of so many 
dissimilar parts, it naturally follows,that the English, like every 
compounded language, must needs be somewhat irregular. We 
cannot expect from it that correspondence of parts, that complete 
analogy in structure, which may be found in those simpler langua¬ 
ges, which have been formed in a manner within themselves, and 
built on one foundation. Hence, as I before showed, it has but small 
remains of conjugation or declension ; and its syntax is narrow', as 
there are few marks in the words themselves, that can show their 
relation to each other, or, in the grammatical style, point out either 
their concordance, or their government in the sentence. Our words 
having been brought to us from several different regions, straggle, 
if we may so speak, asunder from each other; and do not coalesce 
so naturally in the structure of a sentence, as the words in the 
Greek and Roman tongues. 

But these disadvantages, if they be such, of a compound lan¬ 
guage, are balanced by other advantages that attend it; particularly, 
by the number and variety of words with which such a language is 
likely to be enriched. Few languages are, in fact, more copious 
than the English. In all grave subjects especially, historical, criti¬ 
cal, political, and moral, no writer has the least reason to complain 
of the barrenness of our tongue. The studious reflecting genius of 
the people, has brought together great store of expressions, on such 
subjects, from every quarter. We are rich too in the language of 
poetry. Our poetical style differs widely from prose, not in point 


LECT. IX.] THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 


97 


of numbers only, but in the very words themselves; which shows 
what a stock and compass of words we have it in our power to se¬ 
lect and employ, suited to those different occasions. Herein we are 
infinitely superior to the French, whose poetical language, if it were 
not distinguished by rhyme, would not be known to differ from their 
ordinary prose. 

It is chiefly, indeed, on grave subjects, and with respect to the 
stronger emotions of the mind, that our language displays its power 
of expression. We are said to have thirty words, at lea^t, for de¬ 
noting all the varieties of the passion of anger.* But, in describing 
the more delicate sentiments and emotions, our tongue is not so fer¬ 
tile. It must be confessed, that the French language far surpasses ours, 
in expressing the nicer shades of character; especially those varieties 
of manner, temper, and behaviour, which are displayed in our social 
intercourse with one another. Let any one attempt to translate into 
English, only a few pages of one of Marivaux’s novels, and he will 
soon be sensible of our deficiency of expression on these subjects. 
Indeed, no language is so copious as the French for whatever is deli¬ 
cate, gay, and amusing. It is, perhaps, the happiest language for con¬ 
versation, in the known world; but on the higher subjects of com¬ 
position, the English may be justly esteemed to excel it considerably. 

Language is generally understood to receive its predominant 
tincture from the national character of the people who speak it. We 
must not, indeed, expect that it will carry an exact and full impres¬ 
sion of their genius and manners; for among all nations, the original 
stock of words which they received from their ancestors, remain as 
the foundation of their speech throughout many ages, while their 
manners undergo, perhaps, very great alterations. National charac¬ 
ter will, however, always have some perceptible influence on the 
turn of language; and the gayety and vivacity of the French, and 
the gravity and thoughtfulness of the English, are sufficiently im¬ 
pressed on their respective tongues. 

From the genius of our language, and the character of those who 
speak it, it may be expected to have strength and energy. It is, in¬ 
deed, naturally prolix, owing to the great number of particles and 
auxiliary verbs which we are obliged constantly to employ; and this 
prolixity must, in some degree, enfeeble it. We seldom can express so 
much by one word as was done by the verbs, and by the nouns, in 
the Greek and Roman languages. Our style is less compact; our 
conceptions being spread out among more words, and split, as it 
were, into more parts, make a fainter impression when we utter 
them. Notwithstanding this defect, by our abounding in terms for 
expressing all the strong emotions of the mind, and by the liberty 
which we enjoy, in a greater degree than most nations, of com¬ 
pounding words, our language may be esteemed to possess consider- 


* Ano'er wrath, passion, rage, fury, outrage, fierceness, sharpness, animosity, choler, 
resentment, heat, heart-burning; to fume, storm, inflame, be incensed, to vex, kindle, 
Irritate, enrage, exasperate, provoke, fret; to be sullen, hasty, hot, rough, sour, 
neevish, he. Preface to Greenwood’s Grammar. 

13 




98 


THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. [lect. i%. 

able force of expression; comparatively, at least, with the other 
modern tongues, though much below the ancient. The style oi 
Milton alone, both in poetry and prose, is a sufficient proof, that the 
English tongue is far from being destitute of nerves and energy. 

The flexibility of a language, or its power of accommodation to 
different styles and manners, so as to be either grave and strong, or 
easy and flowing, or tender and gentle, or pompous and magnificent, 
as occasions require, or as an author’s genius prompts, is a quality 
of great importance in speaking and writing. It seems to depend 
upon three things; the copiousness of a language; the different ar¬ 
rangements of which its words are susceptible; and the variety and 
beauty of the sound of those words, so as to correspond to many 
different subjects. Never did any tongue possess this quality so 
eminently as the Greek, which every writer of genius could so mould, 
as to make the style perfectly expressive of his own manner and pe¬ 
culiar turn. It had all the three requisites, which I have mentioned 
as necessary for this purpose. It joined to these the graceful variety 
of its different dialects; and thereby readily assumed every sort of 
character which an author could wish, from the most simple and 
most familiar, up to the most majestic. The Latin, though a very 
beautiful language, is inferior, in this respect, to the Greek. It has 
more of a fixed character of stateliness and gravity. It is always 
firm and masculine in the tenour of its sound; and is supported by 
a certain senatorial dignity, of which it is difficult for a writer to di¬ 
vest it wholly, on any occasion. Among the modern tongues, the 
Italian possesses a great deal more of this flexibility than the French. 
By its copiousness, its freedom of arrangement, and the great beauty 
and harmony of its sounds, it suits itself very happily to most sub¬ 
jects, either in prose or in poetry; is capable of the august and the 
strong as well as the tender; and seems to be, on the whole, the 
most perfect of all the modern dialects which have arisen out of the 
ruins of the ancient. Our own language, though not equal to the 
Italian in flexibility, yet is not destitute of a considerable degree ol 
this quality. If any one will consider the diversity of style which 
appears in some of our classics, that great difference of manner, for 
instance, which is marked by the style of Lord Shaftesbury, and 
that of Dean Swift, he will see, in our tongue, such a circle of ex¬ 
pression, such a power of accommodation to the different taste of 
writers, as redounds not a little to its honour. 

What the English has been most taxed with, is its deficiency in 
harmony of sound. But though every native is apt to be partial to 
the sounds of his own language, and may, therefore, be suspected of 
not being a fair judge in this point; yet, I imagine, there are evi¬ 
dent grounds on which it may be shown, that this charge against our 
tongue has been carried too far. The melody of our versification, 
its power of supporting poetical numbers without any assistance 
from rhyme, is alone a sufficient proof that our language is far from 
being unmusical. Our verse is, after the Italian, the most diversified 
and harmonious of any of the modern dialects; unquestionably far 
beyond the French verse, in variety, sweetness, and melody. Mr 


LECT. IX.] THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 


99 


Sheridan has shown, in .his lectures, that we abound more in vowel 
and diphthong sounds, than most languages; and these too, so divi- 
ded into long and short, as to afford a proper diversity in the quanti¬ 
ty of our syllables. Our consonants, he observes, which appear so 
crowded to the eye on paper, often form combinations, not disagree¬ 
able to the ear in pronouncing; and, in particular, the objection 
which has been made to the frequent recurrence of the hissing con¬ 
sonant s in our language, is unjust and ill-founded. For, it has not 
been attended to, that very commonly, and in the final syllables Es¬ 
pecially, this letter loses altogether the hissing sound, and is trans¬ 
formed into a z, which is one of the sounds on which the ear rests with 
pleasure; as in has, these, those, loves, hears, and innumerable more, 
where, though the letter s be retained in writing, it has really the 
power of z, not of the common s. 

After all, however, it must be admitted, that smoothness, or beau¬ 
ty of sound, is not one of the distinguishing properties of the Eng¬ 
lish tongue. Though not incapable of being formed into melodious 
arrangements, yet strength and expressiveness, more than grace, 
form its character. We incline, in general, to a short pronunciation 
of our words, and have shortened the quantity of most of those 
which we borrow from the Latin, as orator,spectacle, theatre, liberty, 
and such like. Agreeable to this, is a remarkable peculiarity of 
English pronunciation, the throwing the accent farther back, that is, 
nearer the beginning of the word than is done by any other nation. 
In Greek and Latin, no word is accented farther back than the third 
syllable from the end, or what is called the antepenult. But, in 
English, we have many words accented on the fourth, some on the 
fifth syllable from the end, as, memorable , conveniency, ambulatory, 
profitableness. The general effect of this practice of hastening the 
accent, or placing it so near the beginning of a word, is to give a 
brisk and a spirited, but at the same time, a rapid and hurried, and 
not very musical, tone to the whole pronunciation of a people. 

The English tongue possesses, undoubtedly, this property, that it 
is the most simple in its form and construction, of all the European 
dialects. It is free from all intricacy of cases, declensions, moods, 
and tenses. Its words are subject to fewer variations from their 
original form than those of any other language. Its substantives 
have no distinction of gender, except what nature has made, and but 
one variation in case. Its adjectives admit of no change at all, ex¬ 
cept what expresses the degree of comparison. Its verbs, instead of 
running through all the varieties of ancient conjugation, suffer no 
more than four or five changes in termination. By the help of a 
few prepositions and auxiliary verbs, all the purposes of significaney 
in meaning are accomplished; while the words, for the most part, 
preserve their form unchanged. The disadvantages in point of ele¬ 
gance, brevity, and force, which follow from this structure of our lan¬ 
guage, I have before pointed out. But, at the same time, it must be ad¬ 
mitted, that such a structure contributes to facility. It renders the ac¬ 
quisition of our language less laborious, the arrangement of our words 
more plain and obvious, the rules of our syntax fewer and more simple; 
P 


100 


THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. [lkct. ix * 

I agree, indeed, with Dr. Lowth, (Preface to his grammar) m 
thinking, that the simplicity and facility of our language occa¬ 
sion its being frequently written and spoken with less accura¬ 
cy. It was necessary to study languages which were of a more 
complex and artificial form, with greater care. The marks oi gen¬ 
der and case, the varieties of conjugation and declension, the mul¬ 
tiplied rules of syntax, were all to be attended to in speech. Hence 
language became more an object of art. It was reduced into form; 
a standard was established; and any departures from the standard 
became conspicuous. Whereas, among us, language is hardly con¬ 
sidered as an object of grammatical rule. We take it for granted, 
that a competent skill in it may be acquired without any study; and 
that in a syntax so narrow and confined as ours, there is nothing 
which demands attention. Hence arises the habit of writing in a 
loose and inaccurate manner. 

I admit, that no grammatical rules have sufficient authority to con¬ 
trol the firm and established usage of language. Established cus¬ 
tom in speaking and writing, is the standard to which we must at, 
last resort for determining every controverted point in language and 
style. But it will not follow from this, that grammatical rules are 
superseded as useless. In every language, which has been in any 
degree cultivated, there prevails a certain structure and analogy oi 
parts, which is understood to give foundation to the most reputable 
usage of speech; and which, in all cases, when usage is loose or du¬ 
bious, possesses considerable authority. In every language, there aie 
rules of syntax which must be inviolably observed by all who would 
either write or speak with any propriety. F or syntax is no other than 
that arrangement of words, inasentence, which renders the meaning 
of each word, and the relation of all the words to one another, most 
clear and intelligible. 

All the rules of Latin syntax, it is true, cannot be applied to our 
language. Many of these rules arose from the particular form of 
their language, which occasioned verbs or prepositions to govern, 
some the genitive, some the dative, some the accusative or ablative 
case. But, abstracting from these peculiarities, it is to he always 
remembered, that the chief and fundamental rules of syntax are 
common to the English as well as the Latin tongue; and, indeed, be¬ 
long equally to all languages. For in all languages, the parts which 
compose speech are essentially the same; substantives, adjectives, 
verbs, and connecting particles: and wherever these parts of speech 
are found, there are certain necessary relations among them, which 
regulate their syntax, or the place which they ought to possess in a 
sentence. Thus, in English, just as much as in Latin, the adjective 
must by position, be made to agree with its substantive; and the 
verb must agree with its nominative in person and number; because, 
from the nature of things, a word, which expresses either a quality 
or an action, must correspond as closely as possible with the name 
of that thing whose quality, or whose action, it expresses. Two or 
more substantives, joined by a copulative, must always require the 
verbs or pronouns, to which they refer, to be placed in the plural 


LECT. IX.] THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 


101 


number; otherwise, their common relation to these verbs or pro¬ 
nouns is not pointed out. An active verb must, in every language, 
govern the accusative; that is, clearly point out some substantive 
noun, as the object to which its action is directed. A relative pro¬ 
noun must, in every form of speech, agree with its antecedent in 
gender, number, and person; and conjunctions, or connecting parti¬ 
cles, ought always to couple like cases and moods; that is, ought 
to join together words which are of the same form and state with 
each other. I mention these, as a few exemplifications of that fun¬ 
damental regard to syntax, which, even in such a language as ours, 
is absolutely requisite for writing or speaking with any propriety. 

Whatever the advantages or defects of the English language be, 
as it is our own language, it deserves a high degree of our study and 
attention, both with regard to the choice of words which we employ, 
and with regard to the syntax, or the arrangement of these words 
in a sentence. We know how much the Greeks and Romans, in their 
most polished and flourishing times, cultivated their own tongues. 
We know how much study both the French, and the Italians, have 
bestowed upon theirs. Whatever knowledge may be acquired by 
the study of other languages, it can never be communicated with ad¬ 
vantage, unless by such as can write and speak their own language 
well. Let the matter of an author be ever so good and useful, his 
compositions will always suffer in the public esteem, if his expression 
be deficient in purity and propriety. At the same time, the attain¬ 
ment of a correct and elegant style, is an object which demands ap¬ 
plication and labour. If any imagine they can catch it merely by 
the ear, or acquire it by a slight perusal of some of our good authors, 
they will find themselves much disappointed. The many errors, even 
in point of grammar, the many offences against purity of language, 
which are committed by writers who are far from being contempti¬ 
ble, demonstrate, that a careful study of the language is previously 
requisite, in all who aim at writing it properly.* 


QUESTIONS. 


Of the verb, what is observed ? In 
it, what appears; and therefore, what 
follows? Why will our author avoid 
dwelling longer on this subject, than is 
absolutely necessary ? What property 
has the verb, in common with the ad¬ 
jective? In all verbs, what three things 
are implied at once ? How is this re¬ 
mark illustrated ? Of the particle shi¬ 
ning, what is remarked ? What may 
the infinitive mood, to shine , be called; 
and why? Hence, what resemblance 
does the infinitive mood often carry ? 
What examples are given ? What is 
that which chiefly distinguishes the 


verb fromother parts of speech? Hence, 
what follows; and why ? What has 
arisen from this sort of eminence? 
Why must verbs have been coeval 
with men’s first attempts towards the 
formation of language? What, is it 
probable, was its' radical form; and 
why ? What did such verb? afterwards 
become, and into what did they branch 
out ? For what are the tenses contri¬ 
ved ? Why must notice be taken of 
these? Of what divisions of time do we 
naturally think ? Under what circum¬ 
stances might we imagine that no more 
were needftd ? But how does language 


* On this subject, the reader ought to peruse Dr. Lowth’s Short Introduction to English 
Grammar, with Critical Notes; Dr. Campbell’s Philosophy of Rhetoric; and Dr. Priest 
.lys Rudiments of English Grammar. 








1U1 a 


QUESTIONS. [LfccT. IX- 


proceed; and into what does it split 
time ? How does it consider it; and 
hence, what follows ? How may the 
present be considered? What examples 
are given ? How many past tenses are 
found in the poorest languages ? How 
many has ours ? Define each, and give 
the illustrative examples. Here, what 
do we, with pleasure, observe ? What 
tense have they not ? In both cases, 
what must they say ? How is the ad¬ 
vantage of our language illustrated? 
Define the two varieties ofthe future, and 
give examples of each. Besides tenses, 
what other distinction do verbs admit ? 
For what are moods designed ? Define 
the indicative, the imperative, and the 
subjunctive moods; and give examples 
of each. What does this manner of ex¬ 
pressing an affirmation, &c. form ? 
What now clearly appears ? How is 
this fully illustrated ? What is a curi¬ 
ous and remarkable^ fact? In what 
languages is conjugation esteemed most 
perfect ? What is said of the tenses of 
oriental tongues ? Hoav is this deficien¬ 
cy supplied? What example is given? 
Of the tenses and moods of the Greek 
language, what is remarked ? Of the 
Latin, what is observed ? What is the 
state of conjugation, in modem Euro¬ 
pean tongues ? In what do they admit 
few varieties; and to what have they 
constant recourse? To what is the 
change which language has undergone 
in conjugation, similar ? What illus¬ 
tration of this remark is given ? How 
may the alteration be easily under¬ 
stood? Ofthe auxiliary verbs, what is 
remarked ? What do they imply ? 
With what, in the early state of speech, 
would their import be incorporated? 
In what manner was it afterwards 
found that these auxiliaries might sup¬ 
ply the place of most of the moods and 
lenses ? Hence, what followed ? What 
examples of illustration are given? 
What few varieties were retained ? 
What was the consequence of this 
practice ? What effect had it on lan¬ 
guage ? What are the remaining parts 
of speech called? Of these, what are 
the first that occur ? To what are they 
reducible; and why? For the most 
part, what are they; expressing what? 
Hence, of them, what may be con¬ 
ceived ; and accordingly, whence are 
the great body of them derived? 
What class of words do prepositions 
and conjugations form ; and to express 


what relations, do they serve? bor 
connecting what, are conjunctions em¬ 
ployed ; and what examples are given? 

In what manner do prepositions connect 
words; and what examples are given? 
When was the force of these spoken of. 
From what is it evident that all these 
connective particles must be of the 
greatest use in speech; and, therefore, 
what follows ? As a nation improves in 
science, and as its language becomes 
more perfect, what may we expect ? 
Accordingly, what language contains 
the greatest quantity of them; and 
why ? On what does much of the beau¬ 
ty and strength of every language de¬ 
pend ? What depends on the right or 
wrong management of them ? Before 
he dismisses the subject of language, 
what observation does our author re¬ 
quest to be allowed to make; and 
why ? How is this subject illustrated in 
a quotation from Quintilian ? What 
subject do we next approach ? Of the 
language which is at present spoken 
throughout Great Britain, what is ob¬ 
served? What was the language of 
the first inhabitants of the island ? Of 
this Celtic tongue, what is remarked, 
and where did it obtain? Of what 
countries was it the language ; and till 
what period? Where, only, does it now 
subsist ? What evidence have we of 
this ? How long did this continue to be 
the language of the island ? 

Hoav did the Saxons treat the Bri¬ 
tons ? Of what was the Saxon tongue 
a dialect; and of what did it lay the 
foundation ? How long did it continue 
to be spoken throughout the southern 
part of the island? What language 
did he introduce ? Of what, then, is the 
English which is now spoken a mix¬ 
ture ? What language is spoken in the 
low countries of Scotland? For what, 
can we not easily account ? What are, 
still, uncertain and contested points ? 
What appears, from what has been 
said, to be the basis of our present 
speech; and how has it been imported 
among us? From Avhat ancient lan¬ 
guage are many of our Avords, also, 
derived; and how did Ave receive them? 
What evidence have we of this? With 
what language has the French always 
continued to have a very considerable 
affinity; and hence, what follows? 
From the influx of so many streams, 
Avhat naturally follows? What can 
we not expect from it ? Why is its 







LECT. IX.J 


QUESTIONS. 


101 b 


syntax narrow? What remark fol¬ 
lows ? How are these disadvantages, 
if they be such, balanced ? In what 
subject is our language particularly 
copious ? How has this been produced ? 
In what also are we rich ; and in what 
does it differ from prose ? What does 
this show ; and to what language are 
we, in this respect, infinitely superior ? 
Of their poetical language, what is re¬ 
marked ? Where does our language 
chiefly display its power of expression ? 
How many words are we said to have 
to denote the varieties of the passion of 
anger? Repeat them. Where is our 
tongue less fertile ? In what does the 
French tongue surpass ours? How 
may any one be convinced of this? 
For what is the French, of all lan¬ 
guages, the most copious; and for 
what is it the happiest language in the 
world ? But where does ours excel it ? 
Whence does language receive its pre¬ 
dominant feature ? What must we, 
however, not expect; and why ? What 
evidence, however, have we that na¬ 
tional character will always have some 
influence on the turn of language ? 
From the genius of our language, what 
may it be expected to have ? To what 
is its prolixity owing ; and what is its 
effect? How is this illustrated? Why 
may our language still be esteemed to 
possess considerable force of expression ? 
Of what is the style of Milton a sufficient 
proof? What, is a quality of great im¬ 
portance in speaking or writing; and 
on what three things does it depend ? 
What tongue most eminently possesses 
this quality ? What advantages did it 
possess? What is the character of the 
Latin tongue in this respect? Of the 
Italian language, what is remarked ? 
By considering whose style, may one 
be convinced that our language is not 
destitute of flexibility ? With what has 
our language been most taxed ? What 
alone is sufficient to prove that our lan-j 
guage is not unmusical ? Of our verse, I 


what is remarked? What has Mr. She ¬ 
ridan, in his lectures, shown? Of our 
consonants, what does he observe; and. 
why ? Alter all, what must be admit¬ 
ted ? To what do we, in general, in¬ 
cline ; and agreeably to this, what is a 
remarkable peculiarity of our pronun¬ 
ciation ? How does the English differ 
from the Greek and Latin in this re¬ 
spect? What is the general effect of 
this practice ? What peculiar property 
does the English language possess ? 
Illustrate this, fully. What opinion of 
Dr. Lowth is here introduced ? Why 
were ancient languages an object of 
art? What do we take for granted; 
and hence, what follows? For what 
are grammatical rules insufficient; and. 
what in this case must be the stan¬ 
dard ? What will not follow from this; 
and why ? Why cannot all the rules of 
Latin syntax, be applied to our lan¬ 
guage ? But what is always to be re 
membered; and for what reason ? 
How is this fully illustrated ? What do 
these exemplifications show ? What 
remark on the English language fol¬ 
lows? How is this illustrated? Who 
will find themselves much disappoint¬ 
ed ? What affords a sufficient proof that 
a careful study of the language is re¬ 
quisite ? 


ANALYSIS. 

1. Verbs. 

a. Their nature and. importance. 
i>. Tenses. 

c. Voices. 

d. Moods. 

e. Conjugation. 

2. Auxiliary verbs. 

3. Adverbs. 

4. Prepositions. 

5. Conjunctions. 

6. The origin of the English language. 

a. Its character. 

b. Its syntax. 


LECTURE X. 



STYLE.—PERSPICUITY AND PRECISION 
Having finished the subject of language, I now enter on the con¬ 
sideration of style, and the rules that relate to it. 

It is not easy to give a precise idea of what is meant by style. 
The best definition I can give of it, is, the peculiar manner in which 











102 


PERSPICUITY. 


[lect. X. 


a man expresses his conceptions, by means of language. It is dif¬ 
ferent from mere language, or words. The words which an author 
employs, may be proper and faultless; and his style may, neverthe¬ 
less, have great faults: it may be dry, or stiff, or feeble, or affected. 
Style has always some reference to an author’s manner of thinking. 

It is a picture of the ideas which arise in his mind, and of the man¬ 
ner in which they rise there; and hence, when we are examining an 
author’s composition, it is, in many cases, extremely difficult to se¬ 
parate the style from the sentiment. No wonder these two should 
be so intimately connected, as style is nothing else than that sort of 
expression which our thoughts most readily assume. Hence, differ¬ 
ent countries have been noted for peculiarities of style, suited to their 
different temper and genius. The eastern nations animated their 
style with the most strong and hyperbolical figures. The Athenians, 
a polished and acute people, formed a style accurate, clear, and neat. 
The Asiatics, gay and loose in their manners, affected a style florid 
and diffuse. The like sort of characteristical differences are com¬ 
monly remarked in the style of the French, the English, and the 
Spaniards. In giving the general characters of style, it is usual to 
talk of a nervous, a feeble, or a spirited style ; which are plainly the 
characters of a writer’s manner of thinking, as well as of expressing 
himself: so difficult it is to separate these two things from one 
another. Of the general characters of style, I am afterwards to dis¬ 
course ; but it will be necessary to begin with examining the more 
simple qualities of it; from the assemblage of which, its more com¬ 
plex denominations, in a great measure,result. 

All the qualities of good style may be ranged under two heads, 
perspicuity and ornament. For all that can possibly be required of 
language is, to convey our ideas clearly to the minds of others, and, 
at the same time, in such a dress, as by pleasing and interesting them, 
shall most effectually strengthen the impressions which we seek to 
make. When both these ends are answered, we certainly accom¬ 
plish every purpose for which we use writing and discourse. 

Perspicuity, it will be readily admitted, is the fundamental quality 
of style ;* a quality so essential in every kind of writing, that for 
the want of it, nothing can atone. Without this, the richest orna¬ 
ments of style only glimmer through the dark ; and puzzle, instead 
of pleasing the reader. This, therefore, must be our first object, to 
make our meaning clearly and fully understood, and understood with¬ 
out the least difficulty. ‘Oratio,’ says Quintilian, 4 debet negligen- 
ter quoque audientibus esse aperta ; ut in animum audientis, sicut 
sol in oculos, etiamsi in eum non intendatur, occurat. Quare non 
solum ut intelligere possit, sed ne omnino possit non intelligere cu- 
randum.’t If we are obliged to follow a writer with much care, to 

*“ Nobis prima sit virtus, perspicuitas, propria verba, rectus ordo, non in longum 
dilata conclusio ; nihil neque desit, neque superfluat.” 

Quintil. lib. viii. 

t “ Discourse ought always to be obvious, even to the most careless and negligent 
hearer : so that the sense shall strike his mind, as the light of the sun does our eyes, 
though they are not directed upwards to it. We must study not only that every hearer 
may understand us, but that it shall be impossible for him not to understand us.” 



LECT. X.] 


PERSPICUITY. 


103 


pause, and to read over his sentences a second time, in order to 
comprehend them fully, he will never please us long. Mankind 
are too indolent to relish so much labour. They may pretend toad- 
mire the author’s depth, after they have discovered his meaning; 
but they will seldom be inclined to take up his work a second time. 

Authors sometimes plead the difficulty of their subject as an ex¬ 
cuse for the want of perspicuity. But the excuse can rarely, if ever, 
be admitted. For whatever a man conceives clearly, that, it is in his 
power, if he will be at the trouble, to put into distinct propositions, 
or to express clearly to others: and upon no subject ought any man 
to write, where he cannot think clearly. His ideas, indeed, may, 
very excusably, be on some subjects incomplete or inadequate; but 
still, as far as they go, they ought to be clear; and wherever this is 
the case, perspicuity in expressing them is always attainable. The 
obscurity which reigns so much among many metaphysical writers, 
is, for the most part, owing to the indistinctness of their own con¬ 
ceptions. They see the object but in a confused light; and, of 
course,can never exhibit it in a clear one to others. 

Perspicuity in writing, is not to be considered as merely a sort 
of negative virtue, or freedom from defect. It has higher merit: 
it is a degree of positive beauty. We are pleased with an author, 
we consider him as deserving praise, who frees us from all fatigue 
of searching for his meaning; who carries us through his subject 
without any embarrassment or confusion ; whose style flows always 
like a limpid stream, where we see to the very bottom. 

The study of perspicuity requires attention, first, to single words 
and phrases, and then to the construction of sentences. I begin 
with treating of the first, and shall confine myself to it in this lec¬ 
ture. 

Perspicuity, considered with respect to words and phrases, re¬ 
quires these three qualities in them, purity ^propriety, and precision. 

Purity and propriety of language, are often used indiscriminately 
for each other ; and, indeed, they are very nearly allied. A distinc¬ 
tion, however, obtains between them. Purity is the use of such 
words, and such constructions, as belong to the idiom of the lan¬ 
guage which we speak ; in opposition to words and phrases that are 
imported from other languages, or that are obsolete, or new coined, 
or used without proper authority. Propriety is the selection of 
such words in the language, as the best and most established usage 
has appropriated to those ideas which we intend to express by them. 
It implies the correct and happy application of them, according to 
that usage, in opposition to vulgarisms or low expressions; and to 
words and phrases, which would be less significant of the ideas that 
we mean to convey. Style may be pure, that is, it may all be strict¬ 
ly English, without Scoticismsor Gallicisms, or ungrammatical irre¬ 
gular expressions of any kind, and may, nevertheless, be deficient 
in propriety. The words may be ill chosen; not adapted to the 
subject, nor fully expressive of the author’s sense. He has taken all 
his words and phrases from the general mass of English language ; 
hut he has made his selection among these words unhappily. Where- 


IQ4 PRECISION IN STYLE. |>ect. x. 

as, style cannot be proper without being also pure; and where both 
purity and propriety meet, besides making style perspicuous, they 
also render it graceful. There is no standard, either of purity or of 
propriety, but the practice of the best writers and speakers in the 
country. 

When I mentioned obsolete or new coined words, as incongruous 
with purity of style, it will be easily understood, that some excep¬ 
tions are to be made. On certain occasions, they may have grace. 
Poetry admits of greater latitude than prose, with respect to coin¬ 
ing, or, at least, new compounding words; yet, even here, this li¬ 
berty should be used with a sparing hand. In prose, such innova¬ 
tions are more hazardous, and have a worse effect. They are apt to 
give style an affected and conceited air; and should never be ven¬ 
tured upon, except by such, whose established reputation gives them 
some degree of dictatorial power over language. 

I he introduction of foreign and learned words, unless where ne¬ 
cessity lequires them, should always be avoided. Barren languages 
may need such assistances; but ours is not one of these. Dean 
Swift, one of our most correct writers, valued himself much on 
using no words but such as were of native growth: and his lan¬ 
guage may, indeed, be considered as a standard of the strictest pu¬ 
rity and propriety, in the choice of words. At present, we seem to 
be departing from this standard. A multitude of Latin words have, 
of late, been poured in upon us. On some occasions, they give an 
appearance of elevation and dignity to style. But often, also, they 
render it stiff and forced : and, in general, a plain, native style, as 
it. is more intelligible to all readers, so, by a proper management of 
words, it may be made equally strong and expressive with this La¬ 
tinised English. 

Let us now consider the import of precision in language, which, 
as it is the highest part of the quality denoted by perspicuity, me- 
1 its a fuff explication; and the more, because distinct ideas are, per¬ 
haps, not commonly formed about it. 

The exact import of precision, may be drawn from the etymolo¬ 
gy of the word. It comes from ‘ praecidere,’ to cut off: it imports 
retrenching all superfluities, and pruning the expression, so as to ex¬ 
hibit neither more nor less than an exact copy of his idea who uses 
it. I observed before, that it is often difficult to separate the quali¬ 
ties of style from the qualities of thought; and it is found so in this 
instance. I or, in order to write with precision, though this be pro¬ 
perly a quality of style, one must possess a very considerable de¬ 
gree of distinctness and accuracy in his manner of thinking. 

The words which a man uses to express his ideas, may be faulty 
m three respects; they may either not express that idea which the 
author intends, but some other which only resembles, or is akin to 
it; or, they may express that idea, but not quite fully and complete¬ 
ly: or, they may express it, together with something more than he 
intends. Precision stands opposed to all these three faults; but 
chiefly to the last. In an author’s writing with propriety, his being 
*ree from the two former faults seems implied. The words which he 


4J3CT. X.] 


PRECISION IN STYLE. 


105 


uses are proper; that is, they express that idea which he intends, 
and they express it fully; but to be precise, signifies, that they ex¬ 
press that idea, and no more. There is nothing in his words which 
introduces any foreign idea, any superfluous unseasonable accessory, 
so as to mix it confusedly with the principal object, and thereby to 
render our conception of that object loose and indistinct. This re¬ 
quires a writer to have, himself, a very clear apprehension of the ob¬ 
ject he means to present to us; to have laid fast hold of it in his 
mind ; and never to waver in any one view he takes of it; a perfec¬ 
tion to which, indeed, few writers attain. 

The use and importance of precision, may be deduced from the 
nature of the human mind. It never can view, clearly and distinct¬ 
ly, above one object at a time. If it must look at two or three to¬ 
gether, especially objects among which there is resemblance or con¬ 
nexion, it finds itself confused and embarrassed. It cannot clearly 
perceive in what they agree, and in what they differ. Thus, were 
any object, suppose some animal, to be presented to me, of whose 
structure I wanted to form a distinct notion, I would desire all its 
trappings to be taken off, I would require it to be brought before me 
by itself, and to stand alone, that there might be nothing to distract 
my attention. The same is the case with words. If, when you would 
inform me of your meaning, you also tell me more than what conveys 
it; if you join foreign circumstances to the principal object; if, by 
unnecessarily varying the expression, you shift the point of view, 
and make me see sometimes the object itself, and sometimes another 
thing that is connected with it; you thereby oblige me to look on 
several objects at once, and I lose sight of the principal. You load 
the animal you are showing me, with so many trappings and collars, 
and bring so many of the same species before me, somewhat resem¬ 
bling, and yet somewhat differing, that I see none of them clearly. 

This forms what is called a loose style; and is the proper oppo¬ 
site to precision. It generally arises from using a superfluity of 
words. Feeble writers employ a multitude of words to make them¬ 
selves understood, as they think, more distinctly ; and they only 
confound the reader. They are sensible of not having caught the 
precise expression, to convey what they would signify; they do not, 
indeed, conceive their own meaning very precisely themselves; and 
therefore help it out, as they can, by this and the other word, which 
may, as they suppose, supply the defect, and bring you somewhat 
nearer to their idea: they are always going about it, and about it, 
but never just hit the thing. The image, as they set it before you, is 
always seen double; and no double image is distinct. When an author 
tells me of his hero’s courage in the day of battle, the expression is 
precise, and I understand it fully. But if, from the desire of multi¬ 
plying words, he will needs praise his courage anti fortitude ; at the 
moment he joins these words together, my idea begins to waver. 
He means to express one quality more strongly; but he is, in truth, 
expressing two. Courage resists danger \ fortitude supports pain. 
The occasion of exerting each of these qualities is different: and 
Q 14 


100 


PRECISION IN STYLE. 


[lect. X. 


being led to think of both together, when only one of them should 
be in my view, my view is rendered unsteady, and my conception of 
the object indistinct. 

From what I have said, it appears that an author may, in a qualifi¬ 
ed sense, be perspicuous, while yet he is far from being precise. 
He uses proper words, and proper arrangement; he gives you the 
idea as clear as he conceives it himself; and so far he is perspicu¬ 
ous : but the ideas are not very clear in his own mind; they are 
loose and general; and, therefore, cannot be expressed with preci¬ 
sion. All subjects do not equally require precision. It is sufficient, 
on many occasions, that we have a general view of the meaning. 
The subject, perhaps, is of the known and familiar kind; and we 
are in no hazard of mistaking the sense of the author, though every 
word which he uses be not precise and exact. 

Few authors, for instance, in the English language, are more clear 
and perspicuous, on the whole, than Archbishop Tillotson, and Sir 
William Temple; yet neither of them are remarkable for precision. 
They are loose and diffuse; and accustomed to express their mean- 
ing by several words, which show you fully whereabouts it lies, ra¬ 
ther than to single out those expressions, which would convey clear¬ 
ly the idea which they have in view, and no more. Neither, indeed, 
is precision the prevailing character of Mr. Addison’s style; although 
he is not so deficient in this respect as the other two authors. 

Lord Shaftesbury’s faults, in point of precision, are much greater 
than Mr. Addison’s; and the more unpardonable, because he is a 
professed philosophical writer ; who, as such, ought, above all 
things, to have studied precision. His style has both great beauties 
and great faults; and,on the whole, is by no means a safe model for 
imitation. Lord Shaftesbury was well acquainted with the power of 
words ; those which he employs are generally proper and well 
sounding; he has great variety of them; and his arrangement, as 
shall be afterwards shown, is commonly beautiful. His defect, in 
precision, is not owing so much to indistinct or confused ideas, as to 
perpetual affectation. He is fond, to excess, of the pomp and pa¬ 
rade of language; he is never satisfied with expressing any thing 
dearly and simply; he must always give it the dress of state and 
majesty. Hence perpetual circumlocutions, and many words and 
phrases employed to describe somewhat, that would have been de¬ 
scribed much better by one of them. If he has occasion to men¬ 
tion any person or author, he very rarely mentions him by his pro¬ 
per name. In the treatise, entitled. Advice to an Author, he des¬ 
cants for two or three pages together upon Aristotle, without once 
naming him in any other way, than the master critic, the mighty 
genius and judge of art, the prince of critics, the grand master 
of art, and consummate philologist. In the same way, the grand 
poetic sire, the philosophical patriarch, and his disciple of noble 
birth and lofty genius, are the only names by which he conde¬ 
scends to distinguish Homer, Socrates, and Plato, in another pas¬ 
sage of the same treatise. This method of distinguishing persons 
is extremely affected; but it is not so contrary to precision, as the 


2.KCT. X.] 


PRECISION IN STYLE. 


107 


frequent circumlocutions he employs for all moral ideas; attentive, 
on every occasion, more to the pomp of language, than to the clear¬ 
ness which he ought to have studied as a philosopher. The moral 
sense, for instance, after he had once defined it, was a clear term; 
but, how vague becomes the idea, when, in the next page, he calls 
it, ‘ That natural affection, and anticipating fancy, which makes the 
sense of right and wrong?’ Self examination, or reflection on our 
own conduct, is an idea conceived with ease; but when it is wrought 
into all the forms of ‘A man’s dividing himself into two parties, 
becoming a self-dialogist, entering into partnership with himself, 
forming the dual number practically within himself;’ we hardly 
know what to make of it. On some occasions, he so adorns, or ra¬ 
ther loads with words, the plainest and simplest propositions, as, if 
not to obscure, at least, to enfeeble them. 

In the following paragraph, for example, of the inquiry concern¬ 
ing virtue, he means to show, that, by every ill action we hurt our 
mind, as much as one who should swallow poison, or give himself a 
wound, would hurt his body. Observe what a redundancy of words 
he pours forth: ‘ Now if the fabric of the mind or temper appeared 
to us such as it really is; if we saw it impossible to remove hence 
any one good or orderly affection, or to introduce any ill or disor¬ 
derly one, without drawing on, in some degree, that dissolute state 
which,at its height, is confessed to be so miserable; it would then, 
undoubtedly, be confessed, that since no ill, immoral, or unjust ac¬ 
tion, can be committed, without either a new inroad and breach on 
the temper and passions, or a further advancing of that execution 
already done : whoever did ill, or acted in prejudice to his integrity, 
good nature, or worth, would, of necessity, act with greater cruelty 
towards himself, than he who scrupled not to swallow what was poi¬ 
sonous, or who, with his own hands,should voluntarily mangle or 
wound his outward form or constitution, natural limbs, or body.’* 
Here, to commit a bad action, is, first, ‘To remove a good and 
orderly affection, and to introduce an ill or disorderly one;’ next, it 
is, ‘To commit an action that is ill, immoral, and unjust;’ and in the 
next line, it is, ‘ To do ill, or to act in prejudice of integrity, good 
nature, and worth;’ nay, so very simple a thing as a man’s wound 
ing himself, is, ‘To mangle, or wound, his outward form or consti 
tution, his natural limbs or body.’ Such superfluity of words is dis 
gustful to every reader of correct taste; and serves no purpose but 
to embarrass and perplex the sense. This sort of style is elegantly 
described by Quintilian; ‘ Est in quibusdam turba inanium verbo- 
rum, qui dum communem loquendi morem reformidant, ducti specie 
nitoris, circumeunt omnia copiosa loquacitate quae dicere volunt.’f 
Lib. vii. cap. 2. 


* Characterise Vol. ii. p. 85. 

t“A crowd of unmeaning words is brought together by some authors, who, afraid of 
expressing themselves after a common and ordinary manner, and allured by an appear¬ 
ance of splendour, surround every thing which they mean to say with a certain copious 
loquacity.” 




PRECISION IN STYLE. 


[lect. X. 


108 

The great source of a loose style, in opposition to precision, is 
the injudicious use of those words termed synonymous. They are 
called synonymous, because they agree in expressing one principal 
idea; but, for the most part, if not always, they express it with 
some diversity in the circumstances. They are varied by some ac¬ 
cessary idea which every word introduces, and which forms the dis¬ 
tinction between them. Hardly, in any language, are there two 
words that convey precisely the same idea; a person thoroughly 
conversant in the propriety of the language, will always be able to 
observe something that distinguishes them. As they are like differ¬ 
ent shades of the same colour, an accurate writer can employ them 
to great advantage, by using them, so as to heighten and to finish 
the picture which he gives us. He supplies by one, what was want¬ 
ing in the other, to the force, or to the lustre of the image which 
he means to exhibit. But, in order to this end, he must be ex¬ 
tremely attentive to the choice which he makes of them. For the 
bulk of writers are very apt to confound them with each other; and 
to employ them carelessly, merely for the sake of filling up a pe¬ 
riod, or of rounding and diversifying the language, as if their signifi¬ 
cation were exactly the same, while, in truth, it is not. Hence a 
certain mist and indistinctness is unwarily thrown over style. 

In the Latin language, there are no two words we should more 
readily take to be synonymous, than amare and diligere. Cicero, 
however, has shown us, that there is a very clear distinction betwixt 
them. ‘ Quid ergo,’ says he, in one of his epistles, ‘tibi commen- 
dem eum quern tu ipse diligis? Sed tamen ut scires eum non a me 
diligi solum, verum etiam amari, ob earn rem tibi haec scribo.’* 
In the same manner tutus and securus, are words which we should 
readily confound; yet their meaning is different. Tutus , signifies 
out of danger; securus , free from the dread of it. Seneca has ele¬ 
gantly marked this distinction; ‘Tuta seelera esse possunt, seeura 
non possunt.’t In our own language, very many instances might be 
given of a difference in meaning among words reputed synonymous; 
and, as the subject is of importance, I shall now point out some of 
these. The instances which I am to give, may themselves be of 
use; and they will serve to show the necessity of attending, with 
care and strictness, to the exact import of w T ords, if ever we would 
write with propriety or precision. 

Austerity , severity , rigour . Austerity, relates to the manner of 
living; severity, of thinking; rigour, of punishing. To austerity, 
is opposed effeminacy; to severity, relaxation; to rigour, clemen¬ 
cy. A hermit, is austere in his life; a casuist, severe in his applica¬ 
tion of religion or law; a judge, rigorous in his sentences. 

Custom , habit. Custom, respects the action; habit, the actor. 
By custom, we mean the frequent repetition of the same act; by 
habit, the effect which that repetition produces on the mind or body. 
By the custom of walking often the streets, one acquires a habit of 
idleness. 


* Ad. Famil. 1.13. Ep. 47. 


t Epis. 97. 



i-ECT. X.] 


PRECISION IN STYLE. 


ioy 


Surprised, astonished , amazed, confounded. I am surprised, with 
what is new or unexpected; I am astonished, at what is vast or great; 
I am amazed, with what is incomprehensible; I am confounded, by 
what is shocking or terrible. 

Desist, renounce, quit, leave off\ Each of these words imply some 
pursuit or object relinquished; but from different motives. We 
desist, from the difficulty of accomplishing. We renounce, on ac¬ 
count of the disagreeableness of the object, or pursuit. We quit, 
for the sake of some other thing which interests us more; and we 
leave off, because we are weary of the design. A politician desists 
from his designs, when he finds they are impracticable; he renoun¬ 
ces the court, because he has been affronted by it; he quits ambition 
for study or retirement; and leaves off his attendance on the great, 
as he becomes old and weary of it. 

Pride, vanity. Pride, makes us esteem ourselves; vanity, makes 
us desire the esteem of others. It is just to say, as Dean Swift has 
done, that a man is too proud to be vain. 

Haughtiness, disdain. Haughtiness, is founded on the high opin¬ 
ion we entertain of ourselves; disdain, on the low opinion we have 
of others. 

To distinguish, to separate. We distinguish, what we want not 
to confound with another thing; we separate, what we want to remove 
from it. Objects are distinguished from one another, by their qual¬ 
ities. They are separated, by the distance of time or place. 

To weary, to fatigue. The continuance of the same thing wea¬ 
ries us; labour fatigues us. I am weary with standing; I am fatigued 
with walking. A suitor wearies us by his perseverance; fatigues us 
by his importunity. 

To abhor, to detest. To abhor, imports, simply, strong dislike; to 
detest, imports also strong disapprobation. One abhors being in 
debt; he detests treachery. 

To invent, to discover. We invent things that are new; we dis¬ 
cover what was before hidden. Galileo invented the telescope; Har¬ 
vey discovered the circulation of the blood. 

Only, alone. Only, imports that there is no other of the same 
kind; alone, imports being accompanied by no other. An only 
child, is one who has neither brother nor sister; a child alone, is 
one who is left by itself. There is a difference, therefore, in precise 
language, betwixt these two phrases, ‘ virtue only makes us happy; 5 
and ‘ virtue alone makes us happy. 5 Virtue only makes us happy, 
imports, that nothing else can do it. Virtue alone makes us happy, 
imports, that virtue, by itself, or unaccompanied with other advanta¬ 
ges, is sufficient to do it. 

Entire, complete. A thing is entire, by wanting none of its parts; 
complete, by wanting none of the appendages that belong to it. A 
man may have an entire house to himself; and yet not have one 
complete apartment. 

Tranquillity, peace, calm. Tranquillity, respects a situation free 
from trouble, (?onsidered in itself; peace, the same situation with 
respect to any causes that might interrupt it; calm, with regard to 


no PRECISION IN STYLE. [lect. x. 

a disturbed situation going before, or following it. A good man 
enjoys tranquillity in himself; peace, with others; and calm, after 
the storm. 

Ji difficulty, an obstacle. A difficulty, embarrasses; an obstacle, 
stops us. We remove the one; we surmount the other. Generally, 
the first expresses somewhat arising from the nature and circum¬ 
stances of the affair ; the second, somewhat arising from a foreign 
cause. Philip found difficulty in managing the Athenians from the 
nature of their dispositions; but the eloquence of Demosthenes was 
the greatest obstacle to his designs. 

Wisdom,prudence. Wisdom, leads us to speak and act what is 
most proper. Prudence, prevents our speaking or acting impro¬ 
perly. A wise man employs the most proper means for success; 
a prudent man, the safest means for not being brought into danger. 

Enough, sufficient. Enough, relates to the quantity which one 
wishes to have of any thing. Sufficient, relates to the use that is to 
be made of it. Hence, enough, generally imports a greater quan¬ 
tity than sufficient does. The covetous man never has enough; 
although he has what is sufficient for nature. 

To avow, to acknowledge, to confess. Each of these words im¬ 
ports the affirmation of a fact, but in very different circumstances. To 
avow, supposes the person to glory in it; to acknowledge, supposes 
a small degree of faultiness, which the acknowledgment compen¬ 
sates; to confess, supposes a higher degree of crime. A patriot 
avows his opposition to a bad minister, and is applauded; a gentle¬ 
man acknowledges his mistake, and is forgiven; a prisoner confesses 
the crime he is accused of, and is punished. 

To remark, to observe. We remark in the way of attention, in or¬ 
der to remember; we observe, in the way of examination, in order 
to judge. A traveller remarks the most striking objects he sees; a 
general observes all the motions of his enemy. 

Equivocal, ambiguous. An equivocal expression is, one which 
has one sense open, and designed to be understood; another sense 
concealed, and understood only by the person who uses it. An am¬ 
biguous expression is, one which has apparently two senses, and 
leaves us at a loss which of them to give it. An equivocal expres¬ 
s' 11 is used with an intention to deceive; an ambiguous one, when 
it is used with design, is, with an intention not to give full informa¬ 
tion. An honest man will never employ an equivocal expression • a 
confused man may often utter ambiguous ones, without any design. 

I shall only give one instance more. 

With, by. Both these particles express the connexion between 
some instrument, or means of effecting an end, and the agent who 
employs it; but with, expresses a more close and immediate connex¬ 
ion ; by, a more remote one. We kill a man with a sword - he 
dies by violence. The criminal is bound with ropes by the execu¬ 
tioner. The proper distinction in the use of these particles, is ele- 
gantly marked in a passage of Dr. Robertson’s History of Scotland. 
When one of the old Scottish kings was making an inquiry into the 
tenure by which his nobles held their lands, they started up. and drew 


PRECISION IN STYLE. 


Ill 


LECT. X.] 

their swords; ‘By these,’ said they, ‘ we acquired our lands, and 
with these we will defend them.’ ‘ By these we acquired our lands;’ 
signifies the more remote means of acquisition by force and martial 
deeds; and, ‘with these we will defend them;’ signifies the imme¬ 
diate direct instrument, the sword which they would employ in theit 
defence. 

These are instances of words, in our language, which by careless 
writers, are apt to be employed as perfectly synonymous, and yet 
are not so. Their significations approach, but are not precisely the 
same. The more the distinction in the meaning of such words is 
weighed, and attended to, the more clearly and forcibly shall we 
speak or write.* 

From all that has been said on this head, it will now appear, that, 
in order to write or speak with precision, two things are especially 
requisite: one, that an author’s own ideas be clear and distinct; and 
the other, that we have an exact and full comprehension of the force 
of those words which he employs. Natural genius is here required ; 
labour and attention still more. Dean Swift is one of the authors, 
in our language, most distinguished for precision of style. In his 
writings, we seldom or never find'vague expressions and synony¬ 
mous words carelessly thrown together. His meaning is always clear, 
and strongly marked. 

I had occasion to observe before, that though all subjects of writ¬ 
ing or discourse demand perspicuity, yet all do not require the same 
degree of that exact precision which I have endeavoured to explain. 
It is, indeed, in every sort of writing, a great beauty to have, at 
least, some measure of precision, in distinction from that loose 
profusion of words which imprints no clear idea on the reader’s 
mind. But we must, at the same time, be on our guard, lest too 
great a study of precision, especially in subjects where it is not 
strictly requisite, betray us into a dry and barren style; lest, from 
the desire of pruning too closely, we retrench all copiousness and 
ornament. Some degree of this failing may, perhaps, be remark¬ 
ed in Dean Swift’s serious works. Attentive only to exhibit his 
ideas clear and exact, resting wholly on his sense and distinctness, 
he appears to reject, disdainfully, all embellishment, which, on 
some occasions, may be thought to render his manner somewhat 
hard and dry. To unite copiousness and precision, to be flowing 
and graceful, and at the same time correct and exact in the choice 
of every word, is, no doubt, one of the highest and most difficult. 


* In French there is a very useful treatise on the subject, the Abbe Girard’s Syno- 
nymes Frangoises, in which he has made a large collection of such apparent synonymes 
in the language, and shown, with much accuracy, the difference in their signification. 
It is much to be wished, that some such work were undertaken for our tongue, and 
executed with equal taste and judgment. Nothing would contribute more to precise and 
elegant writing. In the mean time, this French Treatise may be perused with con¬ 
siderable profit. It will accustom persons to weigh, with attention, the force of 
words; and will suggest several distinctions betwixt synonymous terms in our own 
language, analogous to those which he has pointed out in the French; and, according¬ 
ly, several of the instances above given, were suggested by the work of this author. 



QUESTIONS, 


[lect. X, 


UZ 


attainments in writing. Some kinds of composition may require 
more of copiousness and ornament; others, more of precision and 
accuracy; nay, in the same composition, the different parts of it 
may demand a proper variation of manner. But we must study 
never to sacrifice, totally, any one of these qualities to the other; 
and by a proper management, both of them may be made fully con¬ 
sistent, if our own ideas be precise, and our knowledge and stock 
of words be, at the same time, extensive. 


QUESTIONS* 


What is the next subject of consi¬ 
deration ? What is the best definition 
that can be given of it ? How does it 
differ from mere language, or words ? 
To what has it always some reference? 
Of what is it a picture; and hence, 
what follows? Why is it no wonder 
that these two should be so intimately 
connected; and for what have different 
countries consequently been noted? 
With what did the eastern nations ani¬ 
mate their style? Of the Athenians, 
and their style; and of the Asiatics, 
and theirs, what is remarked? In what 
modem languages are the same cha- 
racteristical differences to be seen. In 
giving the general characters of style, 
of what is it usual to talk; and what 
are they ? As our author is afterwards 
to discourse of the general characters 
of style, with what is it necessary to 
begin ? Under what two heads may 
the qualities of a good style be ranged; 
and why ? When both these ends are 
answered, what is accomplished? What 
will be admitted to be the fundamental 
quality of style; and what is said of 
it ? What, therefore, must be our first 
object ? What writers will fail to please 
us long; and why ? What do authors, 
sometimes, plead as an excuse for want 
of perspicuity ? Why can this excuse 
rarely, if ever, be admitted ? When is 
perspicuity, in expressing our ideas, 
always attainable? To what is the 
obscurity which so generally reigns 
among metaphysical writers, to be at¬ 
tributed ? In what manner do they see 
objects ; and what is the consequence ? 
How is perspicuity to be considered ? 
With an author of what description are 
we pleased ? In what two particulars 
does the study of perspicuity require 


attention? When considered with re¬ 
spect to words and phrases, what three 
qualities does perspicuity require? Of 
purity and propriety of language what 
is observed ? How are they distinguish¬ 
ed ? What does propriety imply ? How 
may style be pure, and at the same 
time be deficient in propriety ? But as 
style cannot be proper without being 
pure also, what follows ? What is the 
only standard of purity and propriety? 
Of the use of obsolete, or new coined 
words, what is remarked ? In the use 
of them, where is the greatest latitude 
admitted ; and how must this liberty 
be used ? What effect are they apt to 
give to style, in prose? Of the introduc¬ 
tion of foreign or learned words, what 
is observed? Where may such assist¬ 
ance be needed? On what did Dean 
Swift value himself; and of his lan¬ 
guage, what is remarked? What is 
the present state of our language ? A 
multitude of what words have of late 
been poured in upon us; and what is 
their effect? What remark follows? 
what shall we next consider; and why? 
Whence may the exact import of pre¬ 
cision be drawn; and what does it im¬ 
port ? What was before observed; and 
why ? In what three respects, may the 
words which a man uses to express his 
ideas, be faulty ? To which of the three 
does precision chiefly stand opposed ? 
When an author writes with propriety, 
why does his being free from the two 
former faults seem implied ? But, to be 
precise, signifies what? What is not 
found in his words ? What does this 
require? From what may the use and 
importance of precision be deduced? 
Why can it not, clearly and distinctly, 
view more than one object at a time ? 







QUESTIONS. 


112 a 


LECT. X.j 

How is this illustrated ? How is the re¬ 
mark, that the same is the case with 
words, illustrated/? What does this 
form; and to what is it the proper op¬ 
posite ? From what does it generally 
arise? Of feeble writers, what is ob¬ 
served ? Of what are they sensible ? 
What do they not distinctly conceive; 
and what is the consequence ? How is 
the ima.^e as they set it before you al¬ 
ways seen ? How is this illustrated in 
the use of the words courage and for¬ 
titude ; and what is the difference be¬ 
tween them? Repeat the succeeding 
remark. From what has been said, 
what appears ? How is this remark il¬ 
lustrated ? All subjects, not equally re¬ 
quiring precision, what, on some occa¬ 
sions, is sufficient; and why ? Of the 
style of Archbishop Tillotson, Sir Wil¬ 
liam Temple, and Mr. Addison, what is 
remarked ? 

Of Lord Shaftesbury’s faults, in 
point of precision, what is observed; 
and why is this, in him, the more un¬ 
pardonable ? What is the quality of 
his style? With what was he well 
acquainted ; and of those which he em¬ 
ploys, what is observed ? To what are 
his defects in precision to be attribu¬ 
ted ? Of what is he excessively fond; 
and with what is he never satisfied ? 
Hence, what follows ? If he has occa¬ 
sion to mention any person, or author, 
in what manner does he do it ? How is 
this remark illustrated ? Of this method 
of distinguishing persons, what is ob¬ 
served ? But it is not so contrary to pre¬ 
cision as what ? What illustrations fol¬ 
low ? On some occasions, to what ex¬ 
tent does he carry this affectation ? In 
the following paragraph of the inquiry 
concerning virtue, what does he mean 
to show ? Repeat the paragraph; and 
also the remarks upon it ? Of such su¬ 
perfluity of words, what is observed ? 
Repeat Quintilian’s description of this 
sort of style ? What is the great source 
of a loose style ? Why are they called sy¬ 
nonymous? How are they varied? What 
will we hardly find in any language ? 
Why, and how, may an accurate writer 
always employ them to great advan¬ 
tage ? But, in order to this end, to what 
must he be extremely attentive; and 
why? Hence, what is thrown over 
style ? Of synonymous words in the 
Latin language, what is remarked; 
and what instances are given ? In our 

R 


own language, what might be given? 
Of the instances which our author is to 
give, what does he observe ? What is 
the difference between austerity , se¬ 
verity, and rigour; what is opposed to 
each; and what examples of illustra¬ 
tion are given? What is the difference 
between custom and habit ? By them 
respectively, what do we mean; and 
what illustration follows ? What is the 
difference between surprised,, asto¬ 
nished, amazed, and confounded ? 
What do desist, renounce, quit, and 
leave off', respectively imply; and how 
is this illustrated? What is the diffe¬ 
rence between pride and vanity; and 
what illustration is given? On what 
are haughtiness and disdain respec¬ 
tively founded ? What is the difference 
between to distinguish, and to sepa¬ 
rate ; and how is this difference illus¬ 
trated ? How is the difference between 
to weary, and to fatigue, illustrated ? 
What do to abhor , and to detest , re¬ 
spectively import; and what illustra¬ 
tion is given ? What is the difference 
between to invent, and to discover; 
and what illustration is given ? What, 
do only and alone respectively import; 
and by what examples is this difference 
illustrated ? There is, therefore, a diffe¬ 
rence in precise language betwixt what 
two phrases; and what do they respec¬ 
tively import? What is the difference 
between entire and complete; and 
what illustration follows? What do 
tranquillity, peace , and calm , respec¬ 
tively respect; and by what example 
is this illustrated ? How are a difficulty 
and an obstacle distinguished; and by 
what example is this illustrated? What 
is the difference between wisdom and 
prudence; and by what sentence is 
this difference illustrated? To what do 
enough, and sufficiently , respectively 
relate? Hence, what follows; and 
what example is given? What do to 
avow, to acknowledge, and to confess, 
respectively suppose; and what illus¬ 
trations are given ? What is the differ¬ 
ence between to remark and to ob¬ 
serve; and what illustration is given? 
Distinguish ambiguous and equivocal 
fully; and give the examples of illus¬ 
tration. What connexion is expressed 
by the particles with and by; and what 
illustration follows? Repeat Dr. Ro¬ 
bertson’s elegant distinction of these 
particles, with the signification of each. 




112 b 


STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [lect. xr. 


Of the words thus given, what is re¬ 
marked? From what has been said, 
what will now appear; and what are 
they ? What is here required ; and of 
the writings of Dean Swift, what is ob¬ 
served? To observe what, had our 
author before occasion ? What, in every 
sort of writing, is a great beauty ? But 
against what must we be on our guard? 
To what only was Dean Swift atten¬ 
tive ? What is the highest attainment 
in writing ? W T hat may different kinds 
of composition require; but what must 
we study never to sacrifice ? 


ANALYSIS. 

Style. 

1. The definition of style. 

a. Variations of style in diffe¬ 
rent nations. 

2. Perspicuity. 

a. Purity. 

b. Propriety, 
e. Precision. 

a. A loose style. 

b. Instances of deficiency 

in precision. 

3. Synonymous words. 

4. Concluding remarks. 


LECTURE XI. 


STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 

Having begun to treat of style, in the last lecture I considered 
its fundamental quality, perspicuity. What I have said of this, relates 
chiefly to the choice of words. From words I proceed to sentences; 
and as, in all writing and discourse, the proper composition and 
structure of sentences is of the highest importance, I shall treat of 
this fully. Though perspicuity be the general head under which I, 
at present, consider language, I shall not confine myself to this 
quality alone, in sentences, but shall inquire also, what is requisite 
for their grace and beauty: that I may bring together, under one 
view, all that seems necessary to be attended to in the construction 
and arrangement of words in a sentence. 

It is not easy to give an exact definition of a sentence, or period, 
farther, than as it always implies some one complete proposition or 
enunciation of thought. Aristotle’s definition is, in the main, a good 

One ! ap^v Kai te\evttiv nad' avrriv , Kai nsyedos evavvorrrov : A form of 

speech which hath a beginning and an end within itself, and is of 
such a length as to be easily comprehended at once.” This, how¬ 
ever, admits of great latitude. For a sentence, or period, consists 
always of component parts, which are called its members ; and as 
these members may be either few or many, and may be connected 
in several different ways, the same thought, or mental proposition, 
may often be either brought into one sentence, or split into two or 
three, without the material breach of any rule. 

The first variety that occurs in the consideration of sentences, is, 
the distinction of long and short ones. The precise length of sen¬ 
tences, as to the number of words, or the number of members, 
which may enter into them, cannot be ascertained by any definite 
measure. At the same time it is obvious, there may be an extreme 
on either side. Sentences immoderately long, and consisting of too 
many members, always transgress some one or other of the rules 
which I shall mention soon, as necessary to be observed in every good 
sentence. In discourses that are to be spoken, regard must be had to 
the easiness of pronunciation, which is not consistent with too long 
periods. In compositions where pronunciation has no place, still. 





113 


lect. xi.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 

however, by using long periods too frequently, an author overloads 
the reader sear,and fatigues his attention. For long periods require, 
evidently, more attention than short ones, in order to perceive 
clearly the connexion of the several parts, and to take in the whole 
at one view. At the same time, there may be an excess in too 
many short sentences also; by which the sense is split and broken, 
the connexion of thought weakened, and the memory burdened by 
presenting to it a long succession of minute objects. 

With regard to the length and construction of sentences, the 
French critics make a very just distinction of style, into style 
periodique and style coupe . 1 he style periodique is where the sen¬ 
tences are composed of several members linked together, and hang¬ 
ing upon one another; so that the sense of the whole is not brought 
out till the close. This is the most pompous, musical, and orato¬ 
rical manner of composing; as in the following sentence of Sir 
William Temple: 4 If you look about you, and consider the lives of 
others as well as your own; if you think how few are born with ho¬ 
nour, and how many die without name or children; how little beauty 
we see, and how few friends we hear of; how many diseases, and how 
much poverty there is in the world; you will fall down upon your 
knees, and, instead of repining at one affliction, will admire so many 
blessings which you have received from the hand of God.’ (Letter 
to Lady Essex.) Cicero abounds with sentences constructed after 
this manner. 

The style coupe is, where the sense is formed into short inde¬ 
pendent propositions, each complete within itself; as in the follow¬ 
ing of Mr. Pope: ‘ I confess it was want of consideration that made 
me an author. I writ, because it amused me. I corrected, because 
it was as pleasant to me to correct as to write. I published, because 
I was told, I might please such as it was a credit to please.’ (Pre¬ 
face to his works.) This is very much the French method of wri¬ 
ting; and always suits gay and easy subjects. Th e style perio¬ 
dique, gives an air of gravity and dignity to composition. The style 
coupe , is more lively and striking. According to the nature of the 
composition, therefore, and the general character it ought to bear, the 
one or other may be predominant. But in almost every kind of 
composition, the great rule is to intermix them. For the ear tires 
of either of them when too long continued: whereas, by a proper 
mixture of long and short periods, the ear is gratified, and a cer¬ 
tain sprightliness is joined with majesty in our style. ‘ Non semper,’ 
says Cicero, (describing very expressively, these two different kinds 
of styles, of which I have been speaking,) 1 non semper utendum est 
perpetuitate, et quasi conversione verborum; sed saepe carpenda mem- 
bris minutidribus oratio est.’* 

This variety is of so great consequence, that it must be studied, 
not only in the succession of long and short sentences, but in the 
structure of our sentences also. A train of sentences, constructed 

* 11 It is not proper always to employ a continued train, and a sort of regular com¬ 
pass of phrases; but style ought to be often broken down into smaller members.” 




114 


STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [lect. xi. 


in the same manner, and with the same number of members, whe¬ 
ther long or short, should never be allowed to succeed one another. 
However musical each of them may be, it has a better effect to in¬ 
troduce even a discord, than to cloy the ear with the repetition of 
similiar sounds: for, nothing is so tiresome as perpetual uniformity. 
In this article of the construction and distribution of his sentences, 
Lord Shaftesbury has shown great art. In the last lecture, I observ¬ 
ed, that he is often guilty of sacrificing precision of style to pomp 
of expression; and that there runs through his whole manner, a 
stiffness and affectation, which render him very unfit to be con¬ 
sidered as a general model. But as his ear was fine, and as he was 
extremely attentive to every thing that is elegant, he has studied the 
proper intermixture of long and short sentences, with variety and 
harmony in their structure, more than any other English author; 
and for this part of composition he deserves attention. 

From these general observations, let us now descend to a more 
particular consideration of the qualities that are required to make a 
sentence perfect. So much depends upon the proper construction of 
sentences, that, in every sort of composition, we cannot be too 
strict in our attentions to it. For, be the subject what it will, if the 
sentences be constructed in a clumsy, perplexed, or feeble manner, 
it is impossible that a work, composed of such sentences, can be 
read with pleasure, or even with profit. Whereas, by giving atten¬ 
tion to the rules which relate to this part of style, we acquire the ha¬ 
bit of expressing ourselves with perspicuity and elegance; and, if a 
disorder chance to arise in some of our sentences, we immediately 
see where it lies, and are able to rectify it.* 

The properties most essential to a perfect sentence, seem to me 
the four following: 1. Clearness and precision. 2. Unity. 3. Strength. 
4. Harmony. Each of these I shall illustrate separately, and at 
some length. 

The first is, clearness and precision. The least failure here, the 
least degree of ambiguity, which leaves the mind in any sort of sus¬ 
pense as to the meaning, ought to be avoided with the greatest 
care; nor is it so easy a matter to keep always clear of this, as one 
might, at first, imagine. Ambiguity arises from two causes: either 
from a wrong choice of words, or a wrong collocation of them. Of 
the choice of words, as far as regards perspicuity, I treated fully in 
the last lecture. Of the collocation of them, I am now to treat. 
The first thing to be studied here, is, to observe exactly the rules of 
grammar, as far as these can guide us. But as the grammar of our 
language is not extensive, there may often be an ambiguous colloca- 

* On the structure of sentences, the ancients appear to have bestowed a great deal 
of attention and care. The Treatise of Demetrius Phalereus, my abounds 

with observations upon the choice and collocation of words, carried to such a degree of 
nicety, as would frequently seem to us minute. TheTreatiseof DyonysiusofFJalicarnas- 
sus, 7 Tty <ruv0s<rsa>c ovo^otrccv, is more masterly; but is chiefly confined to the musical 
structure of periods ; a subject for which the Greek language afforded much more as¬ 
sistance to their writers, than our tongue admits. On the arrangement of words in 
English sentences, the xviiith chapt. of Lord Kaims’s Elements of Criticism, ought to 
be consulted ) and also the 2d volume of Dr. Campbell’s Philosophy of Rhetoric. 



lect. xi.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 


115 

tion of words, where there is no transgression of any grammatical 
rule. The relations which the words, or members of a period, bear 
to one another, cannot be pointed out in English, as in the Greek 
or Latin, by means of termination; it is ascertained only by the po¬ 
sition in which they stand. Hence a capital rule in the arrangement 
of sentences is, that the words or members most nearly related, 
should be placed in the sentence, as near to each other as possible; 
so as to make their mutual relation clearly appear. This is a rule not 
always observed, even by good writers, as strictly as it ought to be. 
It will be necessary to produce some instances, which will both show 
the importance of this rule, and make the application of it understood. 

First, in the position of adverbs, which are used to qualify the 
signification of something which either precedes or follows them, 
there is often a good deal of nicety. ‘ By greatness/ says Mr. Ad¬ 
dison, in the Spectator, No. 412, 4 1 do not only mean the bulk of 
any single object, but the largeness of a whole view.’ Here the 
place of the adverb only , renders it a limitation of the following 
word mean. <1 do not only mean. 5 The question may then be 
put, What does be more than mean? Had he placed it after bulky 
still it would have heen wrong. 4 1 do not mean the bulk only of any 
single object.’ For we might then ask, What does he mean 
more than the bulk ? Is it the colour ? Or any other property ? Its 
proper place, undoubtedly, is, after the word object. ‘ By great¬ 
ness, I do not mean the bulk of any single object only / for then, 
when we put the question, What more does he mean than the bulk 
of a single object? The answer comes out exactly as the author 
intends, and gives it; ‘ The largeness of a whole view.’ ‘Theism/ 
says Lord Shaftesbury, ‘ can only be opposed to polytheism, or athe¬ 
ism.’ Does he mean that theism is capable of nothing else, except 
being opposed to polytheism or atheism ? This is what his words 
literally import, through the wrong collocation of only. He should 
have said, ‘Theism can be opposed only to polytheism or atheism.’ 
In like manner, Dean Swift, (Project for the advancement of Reli¬ 
gion,) ‘The Romans understood liberty, at least, as well as we.’ 
These words are capable of two different senses, according as the 
emphasis, in reading them, is laid upon liberty , or upon at least. In 
the first case, they will signify, that whatever other things we may un¬ 
derstand better than the Romans, liberty , at least, was one thing, 
which they understood as well as we. In the second case, they will 
import, that liberty was understood, at least as well by them as by 
us ; meaning that by them it was better understood. If this last, as 
I make no doubt, was Dean Swift’s own meaning, the ambiguity 
would have been avoided, and the sense rendered independent of 
the manner of pronouncing, by arranging the words thus: ‘The 
Romans understood liberty as well, at least, as we.’ The fact is, 
with respect to such adverbs, as only , wholly, at least, the restoi 
that tribe, that in common discourse, the tone and emphasis we use 
in pronouncing them, generally serves to show their reference, and 
to make the meaning clear; and hence we acquire a habit of throw- 


116 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. (lect. kx. 

ing them in loosely in the course of a period. But, in writing, 
where a man speaks to the eye, and not to the ear, he ought to be 
more accurate; and so to connect those adverbs with the words 
which they qualify, as to put his meaning out of doubt, upon the 
first inspection. 

Secondly, when a circumstance is interposed in the middle of a 
sentence, it sometimes requires attention how to place it, so as to 
divest it of all ambiguity. For instance; ‘ Are these designs/ says 
Lord Bolingbroke, Dissert, on Parties, Dedicat. ‘ Are these designs, 
which any man, who is born a Briton, in any circumstances, in any 
situation, ought to be ashamed or afraid to avow ?’ Here we are 
left at a loss, whether these words, 6 in any circumstances, in any 
situation,’ are connected with, ‘a man born in Briton, in any cir¬ 
cumstances, or situation/ or with that man’s ‘avowinghis designs, 
in any circumstances, or situation,into which he may be brought?’ 
If the latter, as seems most probable, was intended to be the mean¬ 
ing, the arrangement ought to have been conducted thus; ‘ Are these 
designs, which any man who is born a Briton, ought to be ashamed 
or afraid, in any circumstances, in any situation, to avow?’ But, 
Thirdly, still more attention is required to the proper disposition 
of the relative pronouns, who , which, what, whose, and of all those 
particles which express the connexion of the parts of speech with 
one another. As all reasoning depends upon this connexion, we 
cannot be too accurate and precise here. A small error may over¬ 
cloud the meaning of the whole sentence; and even where the 
meaning is intelligible, yet where these relative particles are out of 
their proper place, we always find something awkward and disjoint¬ 
ed in the structure of the sentence. Thus, in the Spectator, (No. 
54.) ‘This kind of wit/ says Mr. Addison, ‘was very much in 
vogue among our countrymen, about an age or two ago, who did 
not practise it for any oblique reason, but purely for the sake of be¬ 
ing witty.’ We are at no loss about the meaning here; but the con¬ 
struction would evidently be mended by disposing of the circum¬ 
stance, ‘about an age or two ago/ in such a manner as not to sepa¬ 
rate the relative who, from its antecedent our countrymen; in this 
way : ‘ About an age or two ago, this kind of wit was very much in 
vogue among our countrymen, who did not practise it for any ob¬ 
lique reason, but purely for the sake of being witty.’ Spectator, No. 
412. ‘ We no where meet with a more glorious and pleasing show in 
nature, than what, appears in the heavens at the rising and setting of 
the sun, which is wholly made up of those different stains of light 
that show themselves in clouds of a different situation.’ Which is 
here designed to connect with the word show, as its antecedent- 
but it stands so wide from it, that without a careful attention to the 
sense, we would be naturally led, by the rules of syntax, to refer it 
to the rising and setting of the sun, or to the sun itself; and, hence, 
an indistinctness is thrown over the whole sentence. The followin«- 
passage in Bishop Sherlock’s sermons, (vol. ii. serm. 15.) is still 
more censurable: ‘It is folly to pretend to arm ourselves against 


lect. xi.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 


117 


the accidents of life, by heaping up treasures, which nothing can 
protect us against, but the good providence of our heavenly Father.’ 
fVhich, always refers grammatically to the immediately preceding 
substantive, which is here 4 treasures;’ and this would make non¬ 
sense of the whole period. Every one feels this impropriety. The 
sentence.ought to have stood thus: 4 It is folly to pretend, by heap¬ 
ing up treasures, to arm ourselves against the accidents of life, 
which nothing can protect us against but the good providence of 
our heavenly Father.’ 

Of the like nature is the following inaccuracy of Dean Swift’s. 
He is recommending to young clergymen, to write their sermons 
fully and distinctly. 4 Many,’ says he, 4 act so directly contrary to 
this method, that, from a habit of saving time and paper, which they 
acquired at the university, they write in so diminutive a manner, 
that they can hardly read what they have written.’ He certainly 
does not mean, that they had acquired time and paper at the uni¬ 
versity, but that they had acquired this habit there; and therefore 
his words ought to have run thus : 4 From a habit, which they have 
acquired at the university, of saving time and paper, they write in 
so diminutive a manner.’ In another passage, the same author has 
left his meaning altogether uncertain, by misplacing a relative. It 
is in the conclusion of his letter to a member of parliament, con¬ 
cerning the sacramental test: 4 Thus I have fairly given you, Sir, 
my own opinion, as well as that of a great majority of both houses 
here, relating to this weighty affair; upon which I am confident you 
may securely reckon.’ Now 1 ask, what it is he would have his 
correspondent to reckon upon, securely ? The natural construction 
leads to these words, 4 this weighty affair.’ But, as it would be dif¬ 
ficult to make any sense of this, it is more probable he meant that 
the majority of both houses might be securely reckoned upon; though 
certainly this meaning, as the words are arranged, is obscurely ex¬ 
pressed. The sentence would be amended by arranging it thus: 

4 Thus, Sir, I have given you my own opinion, relating to this 
weighty affair, as well as that of a great majority of both houses 
here; upon which I am confident you may securely reckon.’ 

Several other instances might be given; but I reckon those which 
I have produced sufficient to make the rule understood; that, in the 
construction of sentences, one of the first things to be attended to, 
is the marshalling of the words in such order as shall most clearly 
mark the relation of the several parts of the sentence to one another; 
particularly, that adverbs shall always be made to adhere closely to 
the words'which they are intended to qualify; that, where a cir¬ 
cumstance is thrown in, it shall never hang loose in the midst of a 
period, but be determined by its place to one or other member of it; 
and that every relative word which is used, shall instantly present 
its antecedent to the mind of the reader, without the least obscurity. 
I have mentioned these three cases, because I think they are the 
most frequent occasions of ambiguity creeping into sentences. 

With regard to relatives, I must further observe, that obscurity 
often arises from the too frequent repetition of them, particularly of 


IIS 


STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [lect. xl 


the pronouns ivho, and they , and them , and theirs , when we have 
occasion to refer to different persons; as, in the following sentence 
of Archbishop Tillotson; (vol. 1 . serm. 42.) 4 Men look with an evil, 
eye upon the good that is in others; and think that their reputa¬ 
tion obscures them, and their commendable qualities stand in their 
light; and therefore they do what they can to casta cloud over them, 
that the bright shining of their virtues may not obscure them. 5 This is 
altogether careless writing. It renders style often obscure, always em¬ 
barrassed and inelegant. When we find these personal pronouns 
crowding too fast upon us, we have often no method left, but to throw 
the whole sentence into some other form, which may avoid those 
frequent references to persons who have before been mentioned. 

All languages are liable to ambiguities. Quintilian gives us some 
instances in the Latin, arising from faulty arrangement. A man, 
he tells us, ordered by his will, to have erected for him, after his 
death, ‘ Statuam auream hastam tenentem; 5 upon which arose a dis¬ 
pute at law, whether the whole statue, or the spear only, was to be 
of gold ? The same author observes, very properly, that a sentence 
is always faulty, when the collocation of the words is ambiguous, 
though the sense can be gathered. If any one should say, ‘ Chre-" 
metem audivi percussisse Demeam, 5 this is ambiguous, both in sense 
and structure, whether Chremes or Demea gave the blow. But if 
this expression were used, 4 Se vidisse hominem librum scribentem 5 
although the meaning be clear, yet Quintilian insists that the ar¬ 
rangement is wrong. ‘Nam, 5 says he, ‘etiamsi librum ab homine 
scribi pateat, non certe hominem a libro, male tamen composuerat 
feceratque ambiguum quantum in ipso fuit.’ Indeed, to have the 
relation of every word and member of a sentence marked in the 
most proper and distinct manner, gives not clearness only, but grace 
and beauty to a sentence, making the mind pass smoothly and 
agreeably along all the parts of it. 

I proceed now to the second quality of a well-arranged sentence 
which I termed its unity. This is a capital property. In even’ 
composition, of whatever kind, some degree of unity is required 
m order to render it beautiful. There must be always some con¬ 
necting principle among the parts. Some one object must reign and 
lie predominant. This, as I shall hereafter show, holds, in h?storv 
m epic and dramatic poetry, and in all orations. But most of all in 
a single sentence, is required the strictest unity. For the verv na 
ture of a sentence implies one proposition to be expressed. It mav 
consist of parts, indeed ; but these parts must be so closely bound 
together, as to make the impression upon the mind, of one obiect 
not Of many. Now, in order to preserve this unity of a sentence’ 
the following rules must be observed:_ ^ tence, 

In the first place, during the course of the sentence, the scene 
should be changed as little as possible. We should not be hurried 

sub e U ct There 81 -' 0118 fr ° m i Per - S ° n t0 PerS ° n ’ n ° r fr0m sub J ect 

thW U ., commonly, in every sentence, some person or 

if nn«' C - * S th f S° vermn S word - This should be continued so 
if possible, from the beginning to the end of it. Should I express 


usct. xi.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 


119 


myself thus: 4 After we came to anchor, they put me on shore, 
where I was welcomed by all my friends, who received me with the 
greatest kindness/ In this sentence, though the objects contained 
in it have a sufficient connexion with each other, yet, by this man¬ 
ner of representing them, by shifting so often both the place and the 
person, we, and they, and /, and who , they appear in such a disunited 
view, that the sense of connexion is almost lost. The sentence is 
restored to its proper unity, by turning it after the following man¬ 
ner : 4 Having come to an anchor, I was put on shore, where I was 
welcomed by all my friends, and received with the greatest kind¬ 
ness/ Writers who transgress this rule, for the most part transgress, 
at the same time, 

A second rule; never to crow'd into one sentence, things which 
have so little connexion, that they could bear to be divided into two 
or three sentences. The violation of this rule never fails to hurt and 
displease a reader. Its effect, indeed, is so bad, that of the two, it is the 
safer extreme, to err rather by too many short sentences, than by 
one that is overloaded and embarrassed. Examples abound in au¬ 
thors. I shall produce some to justify what I now say. 4 Archbi¬ 
shop Tillotson,’ says an author of the History of England, 4 died 
in this year. He was exceedingly beloved both by king William 
and queen Mary, who nominated Dr. Tennison, Bishop of Lincoln, 
to succeed him/ Who would expect the latter part of this sentence 
to follow, in consequence of the former? 4 He was exceedingly 
beloved by both king and queen,’ is the proposition of the sen¬ 
tence : we look for some proof of this, or at least something related 
to it to follow; when we are on a sudden carried off to a new pro¬ 
position, 4 who nominated Dr. Tennison to succeed him/ The 
following is from Middleton’s Life of Cicero: 4 In this uneasy state, 
both of his public and private life, Cicero was oppressed by a new 
and cruel affliction, the death of his beloved daughter Tullia; which 
happened soon after her divorce from Dolabella; whose manners 
and humours were entirely disagreeable to her.’ The principal ob¬ 
ject in this sentence is, the death of Tullia, which was the cause of 
her father’s affliction; the date of it, as happening soon after her di¬ 
vorce from Dolabella, may enter into the sentence with propriety; 
but the subjunction of Dolabella’s character is foreign to the main 
object; and breaks the unity and compactness of the sentence to¬ 
tally, by setting a new picture before the reader. The following 
sentence, from a translation of Plutarch, is still worse: 4 Their 
march,’ says the author, speaking of the Greeks under Alexander, 

4 their march was through an uncultivated country, whose savage 
inhabitants fared hardly, having no other riches than a breed of lean 
sheep, whose flesh was rank and unsavoury, by reason of their conti¬ 
nual feeding upon sea-fish.’ Here the scene is changed upon us 
again and again. The march of the Greeks, the description of the 
inhabitants through whose country they travelled, the account of 
their sheep, and the cause of their sheep being ill-tasted food, form 
a jumble of objects, slightly related to each other, which the reader 
cannot, without much difficulty, comprehend under one view. 


120 


STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [lect. xx. 


These examples have been taken from sentences of no great 
length, yet over-crowded. Authors who deal in long sentences, are 
very apt to be faulty in this article. One need only open Lord Cla¬ 
rendon’s history, to find examples every where. The long, involv¬ 
ed, and intricate sentences of that author, are the greatest blemish 
of his composition ; though, in other respects, as a historian, he has 
considerable merit. In later, and more correct writers than Lord 
Clarendon, we find a period sometimes running out so far, and com¬ 
prehending so many particulars, as to be more properly a discourse 
than a sentence. Take, for an instance, the following, from Sir Wil¬ 
liam Temple, in his Essay upon Poetry: ‘ The usual acceptation 
takes profit and pleasure for two different things; and not only calls 
the followers or votaries of them by the several names of busy and 
idle men; but distinguishes the faculties of the mind, that are con¬ 
versant about them, calling the operations of the first, wisdom; and 
of the other, wit; which is a Saxon word, used to express what the 
Spaniards and Italians call ingenio, and the French, esprit , both 
from the Latin; though I think wit more particularly signifies that 
of poetry, as may occur in remarks on the Runic language.’ When 
one arrives at the end of such a puzzled sentence, he is surprised to 
find himself got to so great a distance from the object with which 
he at first set out. 

Lord Shaftesbury, often betrayed into faults by his love of magni¬ 
ficence, shall afford us the next example. It is in his rhapsody 
where he is describing the cold regions: ‘ At length,’ says he, ‘ the 
sun approaching, melts the snow, sets longing men at liberty, and 
affords them means and time to make provision against the next re¬ 
turn of cold;’ This first sentence is correct enough; but he goes 
on: ‘It breaks the icy fetters of the main, where vast sea-monsters 
pierce through floating islands, with arms which can withstand the 
crystal rock; whilst others, who of themselves seem great as islands, 
are by their bulk alone armed against all but man, whose superiority 
over creatures of such stupendous size and force, should make him 
mindful of his privilege of reason, and force him humbly to adore 
the great composer of these wondrous frames, and the author of his 
own superior wisdom.’ Nothing can be more unhappy or embar¬ 
rassed than this sentence; the worse, too, as it is intended to be de¬ 
scriptive, where every thing should be clear. It forms no distinct 
image whatever. The it, at the beginning, is ambiguous, whether 
it mean the sun or the cold. The object is changed three times in 
the sentence ; beginning with the sun, which breaks the icy fetters 
of the main; then the sea-monsters become the principal person¬ 
ages; and lastly, by a very unexpected transition, man is brought 
into view, and receives a long and serious admonition, before the 
sentence closes. I do not at present insist on the impropriety of 
such expressions as, God’s being the composer of frames; and the 
sea-monsters having arms that withstand rocks. Shaftesbury’s 
strength lay in reasoning and sentiment, more than in description; 
however much his descriptions have been sometimes admired. 

I shall only give one instance more on this head, from Dean Swift; 


lect. xi.l STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 


121 

in his proposal, too, for correcting the English language: where, in 
place of a sentence, he has given a loose dissertation upon several 
subjects. Speaking of the progress of our language, after the time 
of Cromwell: 4 To this succeeded,’ says he, ‘that licentiousness 
which entered with the restoration, and from infecting our religion 
and morals, fell to corrupt our language; which last was not likely to 
be much improved by those, who at that time made up the court of king 
Charles the Second; either such as had followed him in his banish¬ 
ment, or who had been altogether conversant in the dialect of these 
fanatic times; or young men who had been educated in the same 
country; so that the court, which used to be the standard of correct¬ 
ness and propriety of speech, was then, and I think has ever since 
continued, the worst school in England for that accomplishment: 
and so will remain, till better care be taken in the education of our 
nobility, that they may set out into the world with some foundation 
of literature, in order to qualify them for patterns of politeness.’— 
flow many different facts, reasonings, and observations, are here 
presented to the mind at once! and yet so linked together by the 
author, that they all make parts of a sentence, which admits of no 
greater division in pointing, than a semicolon between any of its 
members ? Having mentioned pointing, I shall here take notice, 
that it is in vain to propose, by arbitrary punctuation, to amend the 
defects of a sentence, to correct its ambiguity, or to prevent its con¬ 
fusion. For commas, colons, and points, do not make the proper 
divisions of thought; but only serve to mark those which arise from 
the tenour of the author’s expression ; and, therefore, they are proper 
or not, just according as they correspond to the natural division of 
the sense. When they are inserted in wrong places, they deserve, 
and will meet with, no regard. 

I proceed to a third rule, for preserving the unity of sentences, 
which is, to keep clear of all parentheses in the middle of them. 
On some occasions, these may have a spirited appearance; as 
prompted by a certain vivacity of thought, which can glance happily 
aside, as it is going along. But, for the most part, their effect is ex¬ 
tremely bad; being a sort of wheels within wheels; sentences in the 
midst of sentences; the perplexed method of disposing of some 
thought, which a writer wants art to introduce in its proper place. 
It were needless to give many instances, as they occur so often 
among incorrect writers. I shall produce one from Lord Boling- 
broke; the rapidity of whose genius, and manner of writing, betrays 
him frequently into inaccuracies of this sort. It is in the introduc¬ 
tion to his idea of a patriot king, where he writes thus: 4 It seems to 
me, that, in order to maintain the system of the world, at a certain 
point, far below that of ideal perfection, (for we are made capable of 
conceiving what we are incapable of attaining) but, however, suffi¬ 
cient, upon the whole, to constitute a state easy and happy, or, at the 
worst, tolerable; I say, it seems to me, that the Author of Nature has 
thought fit to mingle, from time to time, among the societies of men, 
a few, and but a few, of those on whom he is graciously pleased to 

16 


122 


STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [lect. xi, 


bestow a larger portion of the ethereal spirit, than is given, in the 
ordinary course of his government, to the sons of men.’ A very 
bad sentence this; into which, by the help of a parenthesis, and 
other interjected circumstances, his lordship had contrived to 
thrust so many things, that he is forced to begin the construction 
again with the phrase, I say: which, whenever it occurs, may be 
always assumed as a sure mark of a clumsy, ill-constructed sentence; 
excusable in speaking, where the greatest accuracy is not expected, 
but in polished writing, unpardonable. 

I shall add only one rule more for the unity of a sentence, which 
is, to bring it always to a full and perfect close. Every thing that 
is one, should have a beginning, a middle, and an end. I need not 
take notice, that an unfinished sentence is no sentence at all, ac¬ 
cording to any grammatical rule. But very often we meet with 
sentences that are, so to speak, more than finished. When we have 
arrived at what we expected was to be the conclusion, when we 
have come to the word on which the mind is naturally led, by what 
went before, to rest; unexpectedly, some circumstance pops out 
which ought to have been omitted, or to have been disposed of else¬ 
where; but which is left lagging behind, like a tail adjected to the 
sentence; somewhat that, as Mr. Pope describes the Alexandrian 
line, 

« Like a wounded snake, drag’s its slow length along.” 

All these adjections to the proper close, disfigure a sentence ex¬ 
tremely They give it a lame, ungraceful air, and, in particular, 
they break its unity. Dean Swift, for instance, in his Letter to a 
Young Clergyman, speaking of Cicero’s writings, expresses himself 
thus: ‘With these writings, young divines are more conversant than 
with those of Demosthenes, who, by many degrees, excelled the 
other; at least as an orator.’ Here the natural close of the sentence 
is at these words, ‘excelled the other.’ These words conclude the 
proposition; we look for no more; and the circumstance added, 
‘at least as an orator,’ comes in with a very halting pace. How 
much more compact would the sentence have been, if turned thus: 
‘With these writings, young divines are more conversant than with 
those of Demosthenes, who, by many degrees, as an orator at least, 
excelled the other.’ In the following sentence, from Sir William 
Temple, the adjection to the sentence is altogether foreign to it. 
Speaking of Burnet’s Theory of the Earth, and Fontenelle’s Plura¬ 
lity of Worlds: ‘The first,’ says he, * could not end his learned trea¬ 
tise without a panegyric of modern learning, in comparison of the 
ancient; and the other, falls so grossly into the censure of the old 
poetry, and preference of the new, that I could not read either of 
these strains without some indignation; which no quality among 
men is so apt to raise in me as self-sufficiency.’ The word ‘ indig¬ 
nation,’ concluded the sentence; the last member, ‘which no quali¬ 
ty among men is so apt to raise in me as self-sufficiency,’ is a pro¬ 
position altogether new, added after the proper close. 


( m a) 

CfclTESTIOffS. 


In the last lecture, what was consi¬ 
dered the fundamental quality of style? 
To what, did what was said of this 
chiefly relate ? From words, to what 
does our author next proceed; and 
why does he purpose treating it fully ? 
Besides perspicuity, into what does our 
author purpose to inquire; and why ? 
Farther than what, is it not easy to 
give an exact definition of a sentence? 
What is Aristotle’s definition ? Why 
does this admit of great latitude ? What 
is the first variety that occurs in the 
consideration of sentences ? What can¬ 
not be ascertained by any definite mea¬ 
sure ? At the same time, what is obvi¬ 
ous ? Of sentences immoderately long, 
what is observed ? To what must re¬ 
gard be had, in discourses that are to 
be spoken ? What is the effect of using 
long periods in compositions, where 
pronunciation has no place ; and why? 
At the-same time, what is remarked of 
short sentences? With regard to the 
length and construction of sentences, 
what distinction do French critics 
make ? What is the style periodique ; 
and what is said of it ? Repeat the ex¬ 
ample from Sir William Temple’s let¬ 
ter to Lady Essex. Who abounds with 
sentences of this kind? What is the 
style coup6 ? Repeat the example from 
Pope’s preface to his works. Whose 
method of writing is this; and what 
subjects does it suit? What air do 
these styles respectively give to com¬ 
position ; and what follows ? Why is it 
necessary, in almost every kind of com¬ 
position, to intermix them ? How does 
Cicero describe these two kinds of 
style? Where must this variety be 
studied, besides in the succession of 
long and short sentences; and why? 
What remark follows ? In this article, 
who has shown great art? What was 
observed of his style, in the last lec¬ 
ture ? But, what has he studied more 
than any other English author; and 
why? From these general observations, 
,o what do we now descend ? On what, 
in every kind of composition, does much 
depend; and why ? By giving atten¬ 
tion to the rules which relate to this 
part of style, what shall we acquire ; 
and what follows? What are the four 
properties, which are most essential to 
a perfect sentence? In the first of 
these, what ought, with the greatest 
care, to be avoided ? From what two 


causes does ambiguity arise ? How far 
has the choice of words been consider¬ 
ed ; and of what is our author now to 
treat ? What is the first thing, here, to 
be studied ? But as the grammar of our 
language is not extensive, what fol¬ 
lows? In what manner cannot the re¬ 
lation of words in English be pointed 
out; and how only is it ascertained ? 
Hence, what is a capital rule in the ar¬ 
rangement of sentences; and of it, 
what is observed ? What, therefore, 
will be necessary ? In the position of 
adverbs, what is remarked ? What 
example is given from Mr. Addison; 
and what remarks are made upon it ? 
What example is given from Lord 
Shaftsbury ? What does it literally im¬ 
port ; and what should he have said ? 
What example is given from Dean 
Swift? Of what different senses are 
these words capable ? What will they, 
in the first case, signify; and what, in 
the second? If this last was Dean 
Swift’s meaning, how might the ambi¬ 
guity been avoided ? Of such adverbs, 
as, only, wholly , and at least , what is 
observed; and hence, what habit do 
we acquire? How should adverbs, in 
writing, be connected with the words 
which they qualify ? On the interposi¬ 
tion of a circumstance in the middle of 
a sentence, what is observed ? What 
instance of a violation of this direction 
is given from Lord Bolingbroke ? Here, 
about what are we left at loss ? If the 
latter was intended to be the meaning, 
how should the sentence have been ar¬ 
ranged ? But, in the proper disposition 
of what, is still more attention required? 
Why can we not be too accurate and 
precise here ? W T hat may be the effect 
of a small error ? Where the meaning 
is intelligible, yet where these relative 
particles are out of place, what do we 
always find ? To illustrate this remark, 
what example is given from Mr. Addi¬ 
son ? How would the construction here, 
evidently be mended ? Repeat the sen¬ 
tence in its improved form. Repeat the 
next example from Mr. Addison. What 
is remarked on the position of the word 
which , in this sentence ? What viola¬ 
tion of the same direction is quoted 
from Bishop Sherlock’s sermons? 
What are the remarks upon it; and 
how should it have been arranged? 
Where is an inaccuracy of the same 
kind found, in the writings of Dean 




122 b 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect. XI. 


Swift? Repeat the passage. What is 
remarked upon it; and how should it 
have been arranged ? What passage is 
given from a letter to a member of par¬ 
liament ; what remarks are made upon 
it; and by what arrangement might it 
be amended ? 

To make what rule understood, are the 
instances already given considered suffi¬ 
cient ? Why have these three cases been 
mentioned? With regard to relatives, 
what is further observed? Of what one’s 
particularly; and when? Repeat the 
example to illustrate this remark, quoted 
from Archbishop Tillotson. Of it, what 
is observed ? When we find these per¬ 
sonal pronouns crowded too fast upon 
us, what is the consequence? What 
instances of ambiguity arising from 
faulty arrangement, are given by 
Quintilian, in the Latin language ? 
What is the effect of having the rela¬ 
tion of every word and member of a 
sentence marked in the most proper and 
distinct manner? To what does our 
author next proceed j what is said of 
it; and why is some degree of it re¬ 
quired in every composition? There 
must always be what; and what must 
reign ? This shall afterwards be shown 
to hold in what kinds of composition ? 
Where is it, most of ail, required; and 
why? When a sentence consists of dif¬ 
ferent parts, how closely must these 
parts be bound together ? In order to 
preserve this unity of a sentence, what 
is the first rule to be observed ? What 
remarks follow; and what example is 
given to illustrate them ? Of this sen¬ 
tence, what is remarked; and how may 
it be restored to its proper unity ? Wri¬ 
ters, who transgress this rule, for the 
most part, transgress what other ? 
What is the effect of its violation? 
Than to err thus, what is a safer ex¬ 
treme? What is the first example 
given to justify what is now said? 
What remarks are made on it? 
Repeat the passage from Middleton’s 
Life of Cicero. What is its principal 
object; and what farther is remarked 
upon it ? What example is given from 
Plutarch ? Of this passage, what is ob¬ 
served j and in it what are found ? What 
authors are apt to be faulty in this ar¬ 
ticle ? Of Lord Clarendon’s sentences, 
what is observed ? In later and more 
correct writers, what do we find? 
What instance is given from Sir Wil¬ 
liam Temple’s Essay upon Poetry? 


When one arrives at the end of such a 
puzzled sentence, at what is he sur¬ 
prised ? Who affords us the next ex¬ 
ample ; and where is it found ? Re¬ 
peat it. What are the remarks of our 
author upon it ? Where did Shaftesbu¬ 
ry’s strength lay ? From whom is the 
next instance taken ; and where is it 
found ? Repeat it. What is said of this 
passage ? Of arbitrary punctuation, 
what is remarked ? To what rule does 
our author next proceed ? When may 
these have a spirited appearance? 
But, why is their effect, for the most 
part, extremely bad ? From whom is 
the instance to illustrate this rule 
taken; and what is said of his genius ? 
Repeat the passage. Of this sentence, 
what is remarked ? To the use of what 
phrase was he, consequently, forced; 
and what is said of it? To preserve the 
unity of a sentence, what is the last 
rule given ? What should every thing 
thatisone, have ? Of what is it unneces¬ 
sary to take notice ? When is a sen¬ 
tence, so to speak, more than finished ? 
What is the effect of these adjectives 
to the proper close ? What air do they 
give it ? What instance of a violation 
of this rule is given from Dean Swift ? 
What is the natural close of this sen¬ 
tence ; and why ? How should it have 
been arranged ? What instance of the 
same fault is given from Sir William 
Temple? What word properly closes 
the sentence; and of the last member, 
what is remarked? 


ANALYSIS. 

Sentences. 

1. The definition of a sentence. 

2. The distinction of long and 
short sentences. 

3. Clearness and precision. 

a. In the position of adverbs. 

b. In the interposition of sen¬ 
tences. 

c. In the proper disposition of 
relatives. 

4. Unity. 

a. The scene should not be 
changed. 

b. Distinct subjects should not 
be introduced into the same 
sentence. 

c. Parentheses in the middle of 
sentences should be avoided. 

D. Sentences should be brought 
to a full and perfect close. 







( 1*3 ) 


LECTURE XII. 


STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 

Having treated of perspicuity and unity, as necessary to be studi¬ 
ed in the structure of sentences, I proceed to the third quality of a 
correct sentence, which I termed strength. By this, I mean, such 
a disposition of the several words and members, as shall bring out 
the sense to the best advantage; as shall render the impression, 
which the period is designed to make, most full and complete; and 
give every word, and every member, their due weight and force. 
The two former qualities of perspicuity and unity, are, no doubt, 
absolutely necessary to the production of this effect; but more is still 
requisite. Fora sentence may be clear enough; it may also be 
compact enough, in all its parts, or have the requisite unity; and 
yet by some unfavourable circumstance in the structure, it may fail 
in that strength or liveliness of impression, which a more happy ar¬ 
rangement would have produced. 

The first rule which I shall give, for promoting the strength of a 
sentence,is, to divest it of all redundant words. These may, some¬ 
times, be consistent with a considerable degree both of clearness and 
unity; but they are always enfeebling. They make the sentence 
move along tardy and encumbered : 

Est brevitate opus, ut currat sententia, non se 

Impediat verbis, lassas onerantibus aures.* 

It is a general maxim, that any words which do not add some im¬ 
portance to the meaning of a sentence, always spoil it. They can¬ 
not be superfluous, without being hurtful. 4 Obstat, 5 says Quintil¬ 
ian, 4 quicquid non adjuvat. 5 All that can be easily supplied in the 
mind, is better left out in the expression. Thus: 4 Content with de¬ 
serving a triumph, he refused the honour of it, 5 is better language 
than to say, 4 Being content with deserving a triumph, he refused 
the honour of it. 5 I consider it, therefore, as one of the most useful 
exercises of correction, upon reviewing what we have written or 
composed, to contract that round-about method of expression, and 
to lop off those useless excrescences which are commonly found in a 
first draught. Here a severe eye should be employed; and we 
shall always find our sentences acquire more vigour and energy when 
thus retrenched: provided always that we run not into the extreme of 
pruning so very close, as to give a hardness and dryness to style. 
For here, as in all other things, there is a due medium. Some regard, 
though not the principal, must be had to fulness and swelling of 
sound. Some leaves must be left to surround and shelter the fruit. 

As sentences should be cleared of redundant words, so also of 
redundant members. As every word ought to present a new idea, 


* “ Concise your diction, let your sense be clear, 
« Nor with a weight of words, fatigue the ear.” 


Francis. 



124 


STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [lect. xii. 


so every member ought to contain a new thought. Opposed to this, 
stands the fault we sometimes meet with, of the Jast member of a 
period, being no other than the echo of the former, or the repeti¬ 
tion of it in somewhat a different form. For example; speaking 
of beauty, 4 The very first discovery of it,’ says Mr. Addison, 
e strikes the mind with inward joy, and spreads delight through all 
its faculties/ (No. 412.) And elsewhere,‘ It is impossible for us to 
behold the divine works with coldness or indifference, or to survey 
so many beauties, without a secret satisfaction and complacency/ 
(No. 413.y In both these instances little or nothing is added by the 
second member of the sentence to what was already expressed in 
the first; and though the free and flowing manner of such an author 
as Mr. Addison, and the graceful harmony of his period, may 
palliate such negligences; yet, in general, it holds, that style, freed 
from this prolixity, appears both more strong and more beautiful. 
The attention becomes remiss, the mind falls into inaction, when 
words are multiplied without a corresponding multiplication of ideas. 

After removing superfluities, the second direction 1 give, for 
promoting the strength of a sentence, is to attend particularly to the 
use of copulatives, relatives, and all the particles employed for 
transition and connexion. These little words, but, and, which, whose , 
where, &c. are frequently the most important words of any; they 
are the joints or hinges upon which all sentences turn, and of course, 
much, both of their gracefulness and strength, must depend upon 
such particles. The varieties in using them are, indeed, so infinite, 
that no particular system of rules respecting them can be given. 
Attention to the practice of the most accurate writers, joined with 
frequent trials of the different effects produced by a different usage 
of those particles, must here direct us.* Some observations, I 
shall mention, which have occurred to me as useful, without pre¬ 
tending to exhaust the subject. 

What is called splitting of particles, or separating a preposition 
from the noun which it governs, is always to be avoided. As if I 
should say, ‘Though virtue borrows no assistance from, yet it may 
often be accompanied by, the advantages of fortune/ In such in¬ 
stances, we feel a sort of pain, from the revulsion, or violent separa¬ 
tion of two things, which, by their nature, should be closely united. 
We are put to a stand in thought; being obliged to rest for a little 
on the preposition by itself, which, at the same time, carries no sig- 
nificancy, till it is joined to its proper substantive noun. 

Some writers needlessly multiply demonstrative and relative par¬ 
ticles, by the frequent use of such phraseology as this: ‘There is 
nothing which disgusts us sooner than the empty pomp of language. ' 
In introducing a subject, or laying down a proposition, to which we 
demand particular attention, this sort of style is very proper; but, 
in the ordinary current of discourse, it is better to express ourselves 
more simply and shortly: ‘Nothing disgusts us sooner than the 
empty pomp of language/ 

* On this head, Dr. Lowth’s short Introduction to English Grammar deserves to be 
consulted; where several niceties of the language are well pointed out. 



1 25 


lect. xii.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 

r 0t i h ^ r writers make a practice of omitting the relative, in a phrase 
oi a different kind from the former, where they think the meaning 
can he understood without it. As, ‘ The man I love. 5 ‘ The domi¬ 
nions we possessed, and the conquests we made. 5 But though this 
cliptical style be intelligible, and is allowable in conversation and 
epistolary writing, yet in all writings of a serious or dignified kind, 
it is ungraceful. There, the relative should always be inserted in its 
proper place, and the construction filled up: ‘ The man whom I 
love. 5 ‘ The dominions which we possessed, and the conquests 
which we made. 5 1 

With regard to the copulative particle, and , which occurs so fre¬ 
quently in all kinds of composition, several observations are to be 
made. First, it is evident, that the unnecessary repetition of it en¬ 
feebles style. It has the same sort of effect, as the frequent use of 
the vulgar phrase, and so, when one is telling a story in common 
conversation. We shall take a sentence from Sir William Temple, 
for an instance. He is speaking of the refinement of the French 
language: ‘ The academy set up by Cardinal Richelieu, to amuse 
the wits of that age and country, and divert them from raking into 
his politics and ministry, brought this into vogue; and the French 
wits have, for this last age, been wholly turned to the refinement of 
their style and language ; and, indeed, with such success, that it can 
hardly be equalled, and runs equally through (heir verse and their 
prose. 5 Here are no fewer than eight ands in one sentence. This 
agreeable writer too often makes his sentences drag in this manner, 
by a careless multiplication of copulatives. It is strange how a wri¬ 
ter, so accurate as Dean Swift, should have stumbled on so impro¬ 
per an application of this particle, as he has made in the following 
sentence; Essay on the Fates of Clergymen. ‘ There is no talent 
so useful towards rising in the world, or which puts men more out of 
the reach of fortune, than that quality generally possessed by the 
dullest sort of people, and is, in common language, called discre¬ 
tion: a species of lower prudence, by the assistance of which, 5 &c. 
By the insertion of, andis , in place of, which is, he has not only clog¬ 
ged the sentence, but even made it ungrammatical. 

But, in the next place, it is worthy of observation, that though the 
natural use of the conjunction and, be to join objects together, and 
thereby, as one Would think, to make their connexion more close; 
yet, in fact, by dropping the conjunction, we often mark a closer 
connexion, a-quicker succession of objects, than when it is inserted 
between them. Longinus makes this remark; which, from many 
instances, appears to be just: ‘ Veni, vidi, vici, 5 * expresses with 
more spirit, the rapidity and quick succession of conquests, than if 
connecting particles had been used. So, in the following descrip¬ 
tion of a rout, in Caesar’s Commentaries: 6 Nostri, emisis pilis, gla- 
diis rem gerunt; repente post tergum equitatus cernitur; cohortes 
aliae appropinquant. Hostes terga vertunt; fugientibus equites oc- 
currunt; fit magna caedes.’t Bel. Gal. 1. 7. 

* “I came, I saw, I conquered.” 

f u Our men, after having discharged their javelins, attack with sword in hand* 

T 



126 


STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [lect. xii/ 


Hence it follows, that when, on the other hand, we seek to pre¬ 
vent a quick transition from one object to another, when we are 
making some enumeration, in which we wish that the objects should 
appear as distinct from each other as possible, and that the mind 
should rest, fora moment, on each object by itself; in this case, co¬ 
pulatives may be multiplied with peculiar advantage and grace. As 
when Lord Bolingbroke says, 4 Such a man might fall a victim to 
power; but truth, and reason, and liberty,would fall with him.’ In 
the same manner, Csesar describes an engagement with the Nervii: 

‘ His equitibus facile pulsis ac proturbatis, incredibili celeritate ad 
flumen decurrerunt; ut pene uno tempore, et ad silvas, et in flumine, 
et jam in manibus nostris, hostes viderentur. 5 * * Bel. Gal. 1. 2. 
Here, although he is describing a quick succession of events, 
yet, as it is his intention to show in how many places the enemy 
seemed to be at one time, the copulative is very happily redoubled 
in order to paint more strongly the distinction of these several 
places. 

This attention to the several cases, when it is proper to omit and 
when to redouble the copulative, is of considerable importance to 
all who study eloquence. For, it is a remarkable particularity in 
language, that the omission of a connecting particle should some¬ 
times serve to make objects appear more closely connected; and 
that the repetition of it should distinguish and separate them, in 
some measure, from each other. Hence, the omission of it is used 
to denote rapidity; and the repetition of it is designed to retard 
and to aggravate. The reason seems to be, that, in the former case, 
the mind is supposed to be hurried so fast through a quick succes¬ 
sion of objects, that it has not leisure to point out their connexion; 
it drops the copulatives in its hurry ; and crow’ds the whole series 
tQgether, as if it were but one object. When we enumerate, 
with a view to aggravate, the mind is supposed to proceed with a 
more slow and solemn pace; it marks fully the relation of each ob¬ 
ject to that which succeeds it; and, by joining them together with 
several copulatives, makes you perceive, that the objects, though 
connected, are yet, in themselves, distinct; that they are many, not 
one. Observe, for instance, in the following enumeration, made by 
the apostle Paul, what additional weight and distinctness is given to 
each particular, by the repetition of a conjunction, ‘ 1 am persuaded, 
that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor pow¬ 
ers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, 
nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of 
God.’ Rom. viii. 38, 39. So much with regard to the use of copu¬ 
latives. 

I proceed to a third rule, for promoting the strength of a sentence, 

of a sudden, the cavalry mak^ their appearance behind ; other bodies of men are seen 
drawing near; the enemies turn their backs : the horse meet them in their flight; a 
great slaughter ensues.” 

* u The enemy, having easily beat off, and scattered this body of horse, ran down 
with incredible celerity to the river ; so that, almost at one moment of time, they ap¬ 
peared to be in the woods, and in the river, and in the midst of our troops.” 



lect. xii.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 


127 


which is, to dispose of the capital word or words, in that place of the 
sentence, where they will make the fullest impression. That such 
capital words there are in every sentence, on which the meaning 
principally rests, every one must see; and that these words should 
possess a conspicuous and distinguished place, is equally plain. In¬ 
deed, that place of the sentence where they will make the best 
figure, whether the beginning, or the end, or sometimes even in the 
middle, cannot, as far as I know, be ascertained by any precise rule. 
This must vary with the nature of the sentence. Perspicuity must 
ever be studied in the first place; and the nature of our language 
allows no great liberty in the choice of collocation. For the most 
part,with us, the important words are placed in the beginning of the 
sentence. So Mr. Addison: ‘The pleasures of the imagination, 
taken in their full extent, are not so gross as those of sense, nor so 
refined as those of the understanding/ And this, indeed, seems the 
most plain and natural order, to place that in the front which is the 
chief object of the proposition we are laying down. Sometimes, 
however, when we intend to give weight to a sentence, it is of advan¬ 
tage to suspend the meaning for a little, and then bring it out full at 
the close: ‘Thus,’ says Mr. Pope, ‘on whatever side we contem¬ 
plate Homer, what principally strikes us, is, his wonderful invention/ 
(Pref. to Homer.) 

The Greek and Latin writers had a considerable advantage above 
us, in this part of style. By the great liberty of inversion, which 
their languages permitted, they could choose the most advantageous 
situation for every word; and had it thereby in their power to give 
their sentences more force. Milton, in his prose works, and some 
other of our old English writers, endeavoured to imitate them in 
this. But the forced constructions which they employed, produced 
obscurity; and the genius of our language, as it is now written and 
spoken, will not admit such liberties. Mr. Gordon, who followed 
this inverted style, in his translation of Tacitus, has sometimes done 
such violence to the language, as even to appear ridiculous; as in 
this expression : ‘ Into this hole thrust themselves, three Roman sen¬ 
ators/ He has translated so simple a phrase as, ‘Nullum ea tern- 
pestate helium,’ by, ‘ War at that time there was none/ However, 
within certain bounds, and to a limited degree, our language does 
admit of inversions; and they are practised with success by the best 
writers. So Mr. Pope, speaking of Homer, ‘ The praise of judg¬ 
ment Virgil has justly contested with him, but his invention remains 
yet unrivalled/ It is evident,that, in order to give the sentence its 
due force, by contrasting properly the two capital words, ‘judgment 
and invention,’ the arrangement is happier than if he had follow¬ 
ed the natural order, which was, ‘Virgil has justly contested with 
him the praise of judgment, but his invention remains yet unri¬ 
valled.’ 

Some writers practise this degree of inversion, which our language 
bears, much more than others; Lord Shaftesbury, for instance, 
much more than Mr. Addison; and to this sort of arrangement is 
owing, in a great measure, that appearance of strength, dignity, and 


128 


STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [lect. xir. 


varied harmony, which Lord Shaftesbury’s style possesses. This 
will appear from the following sentences of his Inquiry into Vir¬ 
tue; where all the words are placed, not strictly fin the natural or¬ 
der’ but with that artificial construction, which may give the period 
most emphasis and grace. He is speaking of the misery of vice. 
k This, as to the complete immoral state, is, what of their own ac¬ 
cord men readily remark. Where there is this absolute degenera¬ 
cy, this total apostacy from all candour, trust, or equity, there are 
few who do not see and acknowledge the misery which is consequent. 
Seldom is the case misconstrued, when at worst. The misfortune 
is, that we look not on this depravity, nor consider how it stands, in 
less degrees. As if, to be absolutely immoral, were, indeed, the 
greatest misery; but, to be so in a little degree, should be no misery 
or harm at all. Which to allow, is just as reasonable as to own, 
that ’tis the greatest ill of a body to be in the utmost manner maim¬ 
ed or distorted; but that to lose the use only of one limb, or to be 
impaired in some single organ or member, is no ill worthy the least 
notice. 5 (Vol. ii. p. 82.) Here is no violence done to the language, 
though there are many inversions. All is stately and arranged with 
art; which is the great characteristic of this author’s style. 

We need only open any page of Mr. Addison, to see quite a dif¬ 
ferent order in the construction of sentences. 4 Our sight is the 
most perfect, and most delightful of all our senses. It fills the mind 
with the largest variety of ideas, converses with its objects at the 
greatest distance, and continues the longest in action, without being 
tired, or satiated with its proper enjoyments. The sense of feeling 
can, indeed, give us a notion of extension, shape, and all other ideas 
that enter at the eye, except colours; but at the same time, it is 
very much straitened and confined in its operations,’ &c. (Spectator, 
No. 411.) In this strain he always proceeds, following the most 
natural and obvious order of the language: and if, by this means, 
he has less pomp and majesty than Shaftesbury, he has, in return, 
more nature, more ease and simplicity; which are beauties of a 
higher order. 

But whether we practise inversion or not, and in whatever part of 
the sentence we dispose of the capital words, it is always a point of 
great moment, that these capital words shall stand clear and disen¬ 
tangled from any other words that would clog them. Thus, when 
there are any circumstances of time, place, or other limitations, 
which the principal object of our sentence requires to have connect¬ 
ed with it, we must take especial care to dispose of them, so as not 
to cloud that principal object, nor to bury it under a load of cir¬ 
cumstances. This will be made clearer by an example. Observe 
the arrangement of the following sentence in Lord Shaftesbury’s 
Advice to an Author. He is speaking of modern poets, as compared 
with the ancient: 6 If, whilst they profess only to please, they secretly 
advise, and give instruction, they may now, perhaps, as well as for¬ 
merly, be esteemed, with justice, the best and most honourable 
among authors.’ This is a well constructed sentence. It contains 
a great many circumstances and adverbs, necessary to qualify the 


x.ect. xii.] STRUCTURE OF SENTIENCES. 


129 


meaning; only, secretly, os well, perhaps, now, with justice, for - 
merly; yet these are placed with so much art, as neither to embar¬ 
rass nor weaken the sentence; while that which is the capital object 
in it, viz. ‘ Poets beingjustly esteemed the best and most honourable 
among authors,’ comes out in the conclusion clear and detached, and 
possesses it-, proper place See, now, what would have been the effect 
of a different arrangement. Suppose him to have placed the mem¬ 
bers of the sentence thus : ‘ If, whilst they profess to please only, 
they advise and give instruction secretly, they may be esteemed the 
best and most, honourable among authors, with justice, perhaps, now" 
as well as formerly.’ Here we have precisely the same words and 
the same sense : but, by means of the circumstances being so in¬ 
termingled as to clog the capital words, the whole becomes perplex¬ 
ed, without grace, and without strength. 

A fourth rule, for constructing sentences with proper strength, is, 
to make the members of them go on rising and growing in their im¬ 
portance above one another. This sort of arrangement is called a 
climax, and is always considered as a beauty in composition. From 
what cause it pleases, is abundantly evident. In all things, we na¬ 
turally love to ascend to what is more and more beautiful, rather 
than to follow the retrograde order. Having had once some con¬ 
siderable object set before us, it is with pain we are pulled back to 
attend to an inferior circumstance. ‘ Cavendum est,’ says Quintili¬ 
an, whose authority I always willingly quote, 4 ne decrescat oratio, 
et fortiori subjungatur aliquid infirmius; sicut, sacrilego, fur; aut 
latroni petulans. Augeri eriim debent sententiae et insurgere.’* Of 
this beauty, in the construction of sentences, the orations of Cice¬ 
ro furnish many examples. His pompous manner naturally led him 
to study it; and, generally, in order to render the climax perfect, 
he makes both the sense and the sound rise together, with a very 
magnificent swell. So, in his oration for Milo, speaking of a design 
of Clodius’s for assassinating Pompey: ‘ Atqui si res, si vir, si tern- 
pus ullum dignum fuit, certe haec in ilia causa summa omnia fuerunt. 
Insidiator erat in Foro collocatus, atque in vestibulo ipso Senatus ; 
ei viro autem mors parabatur, cujus in vita nitebatur salus civitatis; 
eo porro reipublicae tempore, quo si unus ille occidisset, non haec solum 
civitas, sed gentes omnes concidissent.’ The following instance, 
from Lord Bolingbroke, is also beautiful: ‘This decency, this grace, 
this propriety of manners to character, is so essential to princes in 
particular, that, whenever it is neglected, their virtues lose a great 
degree of lustre, and their defects acquire much aggravation. Nay, 
more; by neglecting this decency and this grace, and for want of a 
sufficient regard to appearances, even their virtues may betray them 
into failings, their failings into vices, and their vices into habits un¬ 
worthy of princes, and unworthy of men.’ (Idea of a Patriot King.) 

* 1 Care must be taken, that our composition shall not fall off, and that a weaker ex¬ 
pression shall not follow one of more strength ; as if, after sacrilege we should bring in 
theft; or, having mentioned a robbery, we should subjoin petulance. Sentences ought 
always to rise and grow.’ 


17 



130 


STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [lect. xn, 

1 must observe, however, that this sort of full and oratorical 
climax, can neither be always obtained, nor ought to be always 
sought after. Only some kinds of writing admit such sentences; 
and, to study them too frequently, especially if the subject require 
not so much pomp, is affected and disagreeable. But there is some¬ 
thing approaching to a climax, which it is a general rule to study; 
( ne decrescat oratio,’ as Quintilian speaks, ‘et ne fortiori subjun- 
gatur aliquid infirmius.’ A weaker assertion or proposition should 
never come after a stronger one; and when our sentence consists of 
two members, the longest should, generally, be the concluding one. 
There is a twofold reason for this last direction. Periods, thus di¬ 
vided, are pronounced more easily; and the shortest member be¬ 
ing placed first, we carry it more readily in our memory as we 
proceed to the second, and see the connexion of the two more 
clearly. Thus to say, ‘when our passions have forsaken us, we 
flatter ourselves with the belief that we have forsaken them,’ is both 
more graceful and more clear, than to begin with the longest part 
of the proposition: ‘ we flatter ourselves with the belief that we 
have forsaken our passions, when they have forsaken us.’ In gen¬ 
eral, it is always agreeable to find a sentence rising upon us, and 
growing in its importance to the very last word, when this con¬ 
struction can be managed without affectation, or unseasonable pomp. 
‘If we rise yet higher,’ says Mr. Addison, very beautifully, ‘and 
consider the fixed stars as so many oceans of flame, that are each of 
them attended with a different set of planets; and still discover new 
firmaments and new lights, that are sunk farther in those unfathom¬ 
able depths of a?ther; we are lost in such a labyrinth of suns and 
worlds, and confounded with the magnificence and immensity of 
Nature.’ (Spect. No. 420.) Hence follows clearly, 

A fifth rule for the strength of sentences, which is, to avoid con¬ 
cluding them with an adverb, a preposition, or any inconsiderable 
word. Such conclusions are always enfeebling and degrading. 
There are sentences, indeed, where the stress and significancy rest 
chiefly upon some words of this kind. In this case, they are not 
tobe considered as circumstances, but as the capital figures; and 
ought, in propriety, to have the principal place allotted them. No 
fault, for instance, can be found with this sentence of Bolingbroke’s : 
‘In their prosperity, my friends shall never hear of me; in their 
adversity, always.’ Where never and always , being emphaticai 
words, were to be so placed, as to make a strong impression. But 
I speak now of those inferior parts of speech, when introduced as 
circumstances, or as qualifications of more important words In such 
case, they should always be disposed of in the least conspicuous 
parts of the period; and so classed with other words of greater dig¬ 
nity, as to be kept in their proper secondary station. 

Agreeably to this rule, we should always avoid concluding with 
any of those particles, which mark the cases of nouns, of, to, from, 
tvitk, by. For instance, it is a great deal better to say, ‘Avarice is 
a crime of which wise men are often guilty,’ than to say, ‘Avarice 
is a crime which wise men are often guilty of.’ This is a phraseology 


x.ect. xii. J STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 


131 


which all correct writers shun, and with reason. For besides the 
want of dignity which arises from those monosyllables at the end, 
the imagination cannot avoid resting, for a little, on the import of 
the word which closes the sentence: and, as those prepositions 
have no import of their own, but only serve to point out the rela¬ 
tions of other words, it is disagreeable for the mind to be left pausing 
on a word, which does not, by itself, produce any idea, nor form 
any picture in the fancy. 

For the same reason, verbs which are used in a compound sense, 
with some of these prepositions, are, though not so bad, yet still 
not so beautiful conclusions of a period; such as, bring about, lay 
hold of , come over to, clear up, and many other of this kind ; instead 
of which, if we can employ a simple verb, it always terminates the 
sentence with more strength. Even the pronoun it, though it has 
the import of a substantive noun, and indeed often forces itself upon 
us unavoidably, yet, when we want to give dignity to a sentence, 
should, if possible, be avoided in the conclusion; more especially, 
when it is joined with some of the prepositions, as, with it, in it, to 
it. In the following sentence of the Spectator, which otherwise is 
abundantly noble, the bad effect of this close is sensible : ‘ There is 
not in my opinion, a more pleasing and triumphant consideration 
in religion, than this, of the perpetual progress which the soul makes 
towards the perfection of its nature, without ever arriving at a period 
in it.’ (No. 111.) How much more graceful the sentence, if it had 
been so constructed as to close with the word period. 

Besides particles and pronouns, any phrase which expresses a 
circumstance only, always brings up the rear of a sentence with a 
bad grace. We may judge of this, by the following sentence 
from Lord Bolingbroke: (Letter on the State of Parties at the 
Accession of King George I.) ‘Let me, therefore, conclude by 
repeating, that division has caused all the mischief we lament; that 
union alone can retrieve it; and that a great advance towards this 
union, was the coalition of parties, so happily begun, so successfully 
carried on, and of late so unaccountably neglected; to say no 
worse.’ This last phrase, to say no worse, occasions a sad falling off 
at the end; so much the more unhappy, as the rest of the period is 
conducted after the manner of a climax, which we expect to find 
growing to the last. 

The proper disposition of such circumstances in a sentence, is 
often attended with considerable trouble, in order to adjust them so, 
as shall consist equally with the perspicuity and the grace of the 
period. Though necessary parts, they are, however, like unshapely 
stones in a building, which try the skill of an artist, where to place 
them with the least offence. ‘ Jungantur,’ says Quintilian, ‘ quo 
congruunt maxime; sicut in struetura saxorum rudium, etiam ipsa 
enormitas invenit cui applicari, et in quo possit insistere.’* 

* 1 Let them be inserted wherever the happiest place for them can be found; as in a 
structure composed of rough stones, there are always places where the most irregular 
and unshapely may find some adjacent one to which it can be joined, and some basis 
on which it may rest.’ 




132 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [lect. xii. 

The close is always an unsuitable place for them. When the 
sense admits it, the sooner they are despatched, generally speaking, 
the better; that the more important and significant words may pos¬ 
sess the last place, quite disencumbered. It is a rule, too, never 
to crowd too many circumstances together, but rather to intersperse 
them in different parts of the sentence, joined with the capital words 
on which they depend; provided that care be taken, as I before 
directed, not to clog those capital words with them. For instance, 
when Dean Swift says, 4 What I had the honour of mentioning to 
your Lordship, some time ago, in conversation, was not a new 
thought.’ (Letter to the Earl of Oxford.) These two circumstan¬ 
ces, some time ago , and in conversation^ which are here put together, 
would have had a better effect disjoined thus: 4 What 1 had the 
honour, sometime ago,of mentioning to your Lordship in conver¬ 
sation.’ And in the following sentence of Lord Bolingbroke’s: 
(Remarks on the History of England.) 4 A monarchy, limited like 
ours, may be placed, for aught I know, as it has been often repre¬ 
sented, just in the middle point, from whence a deviation leads, on 
the one hand, to tyranny, and on the other, to anarchy.’ The 
arrangement would have been happier thus: 4 A monarchy, limited 
like ours, may, for aught I know, be placed, as it has often been 
represented, just in the middle point,’ &c. 

I shall give only one rule more, relating to the strength of a 
sentence, which is, that in the members of a sentence, where two 
things are compared or contrasted to each other; where either a re¬ 
semblance or an opposition is intended to be expressed; some re¬ 
semblance, in the language and construction, should be preserved. 
For when the things themselves correspond to each other, we 
naturally expect to find the words corresponding too. We are dis¬ 
appointed when it is otherwise; and the comparison, or contrast, 
appears more imperfect. Thus, when Lord Bolingbroke says, 

4 The laughers will be for those who have most wit; the serious part 
of mankind, for those who have most reason on their side;’ (Dis¬ 
sert. on Parties, Pref.) the opposition would have been more com¬ 
plete, if he had said, 4 The laughers will be for those who have 
most wit; the serious, for those who have most reason on their side.’ 
The following passage from Mr. Pope’s preface to his Homer, fully 
exemplifies the rule I am now giving: 4 Homer was the greater 
genius; Viigil, the better artist; in the one, we most admire the 
man; in the other, the work. Homer hurries us with a command¬ 
ing impetuosity; Virgil leads us with an attractive majesty. Ho¬ 
mer scatters with a generous profusion; Virgil bestows with a care¬ 
ful magnificence. Homer, like the Nile, pours out his riches with 
a sudden overflow; Virgil, like a river in its banks, with a constant 
stream. And when we look upon their machines, Homer seems 
like his own Jupiter, in his terrors, shaking Olympus, scattering the 
lghtnings, and firing the heavens; Virgil, like the same power, in 
his benevolence, counselling with the gods, laying plans for empires, 
and ordering his whole creation.’ Periods thus constructed, when 
introduced with propriety, and not returning too often, have a sen- 


lect. xii.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 


133 


sible beauty. But we must beware of carrying our attention to this 
beauty too far. It ought only to be occasionally studied, when 
comparison or opposition of objects naturally leads to it. If such 
a construction as this be aimed at in all our sentences, it leads to a 
disagreeble uniformity; produces a regularly returning clink in 
the period, which tires the ear; and plainly discovers affectation. 
Among the ancients, the style of Isocrates is faulty in this respect; 
and on that account, by some of their best critics, particularly by 
Dionysius of Halicarnassus, he is severely censured. 

This finishes what I had to say concerning sentences, considered, 
with respect to their meaning, under the three heads of perspicuity, 
unity, and strength. It is a subject on which I have insisted fully, 
for two reasons: First, because it is a subject which, by its nature, 
can be rendered more didactic, and subjected more to precise rule, 
than many other subjects of criticism: and next, because it appears 
to me of considerable importance and use. 

For, though many of those attentions which I have been recom¬ 
mending, may appear minute, yet their effect, upon writing and 
style, is much greater than might at first be imagined. A senti¬ 
ment which is expressed in a period, clearly, neatly, and happily 
arranged, makes always a stronger impression on the mind, than 
one that is feeble or embarrassed. Every one feels this upon a 
comparison: and if the effect be sensible in one sentence, how 
much more in a whole discourse, or composition, that is made up 
of such sentences ? 

The fundamental rule of the construction of sentences, and into 
which all others might be resolved, undoubtedly is, to communi¬ 
cate, in the clearest and most natural order, the ideas which we 
mean to transfuse into the minds of others. Every arrangement 
that does most justice to the sense, and expresses it to most advan¬ 
tage, strikes us as beautiful. To this point have tended all the rules 
I have given. And, indeed, did men always think clearly, and 
were they, at the same time, fully masters of the language in which 
they write, there would be occasion for few rules. Their sentences 
would then, of course, acquire all those properties of precision, 
unity, and strength, which I have recommended. For we may 
rest assured, that, whenever we express ourselves ill, there is,besides 
the mismanagement of language, for the most part, some mistake 
in our manner of conceiving the subject. Embarrassed, obscure, 
and feeble sentences, are generally, if not always, the result of em¬ 
barrassed, obscure, and feeble thought. Thought and language 
act and re-act upon each other mutually. Logic and rhetoric have 
here, as in many other cases, a strict connexion; and he that is 
learning to arrange his sentences with accuracy and order, is learn¬ 
ing, at the same time, to think with accuracy and order; an obser¬ 
vation which alone will justify all the care and attention we have 
bestowed on this subject. 

U 


( 133 a > 


(iUES r 

What does our author term the 
third quality of a correct sentence; and 
what does he mean by it ? Of the two 
former qualities, what is remarked; 
but why is more than these requisite ? 
What is the best rule given for pro¬ 
moting the strength of a sentence ? 
With what may these, sometimes, be 
consistent, but they always have what 
effect? What is a general maxim? 
They cannot be superfluous without 
what; and what follows? What ex¬ 
ample is given to illustrate this remark? 
What, therefore, is considered one of 
the most useful of exercises, in cor¬ 
recting what we have written ? Here, 
what should be employed; and what 
will our sentences acquire, when thus 
retrenched? Of what, however, must 
we be careful; and why? To what 
must some regard be had; and what 
must be left? Besides redundant words, 
of what should sentences be cleared ? 
As every word ought to present a new 
idea, what follows ? What fault stands 
opposed to this? What examples are 
given to illustrate this remark ? In both 
these instances, what is observed of the 
second member of the sentence; and 
what remark follows? When words 
are multiplied, without a corresponding 
multiplication of ideas, what is their 
effect ? After removing superfluities, 
what is the second direction given for 
promoting the strength of a sentence ? 
Of these little words, what is remarked ? 
Why cannot a particular set of rules 
respecting them be given? What, then, 
must here direct us? Of the splitting 
of particles, what is observed ? What 
example is given? In such instances 
what effect is produced ; and why are 
we, in thought, put to a stand ? What 
do some writers needlessly multiply? 
What example is given? Where is 
such a style proper ? But, in the ordi¬ 
nary current of discourse, how should 
we express ourselves ? Where do other 
writers make it a practice of omitting 
the relative ? What examples are 
given ? Of this eliptical style, what is 
remarked ? How, therefore, should 
these sentences be written? What is 
the first observation, made on the copu¬ 
lative and; and what sort of effect has 
it? To illustrate this remark, from 
whom is an example taken; and of 
what is he speaking ? Repeat the pas- 


notfs. 

sage. Here are how many ands ? Of 
this agreeable writer, what is farther 
remarked ? Of a writer, so accurate as 
Dean Swift, what is strange.? Repeat 
the sentence; and of it, what is remark¬ 
ed ? What, in the next place, is worthy 
of observation? Who makes this re¬ 
mark ; what examples are given; and 
what is said of them ? Hence, what fol¬ 
lows ? What examples from Lord Bo- 
lingbroke, and from Csesar, are given to 
iliustrate this observation? Of the latter 
illustration, what is remarked? Why 
is this attention to the copulative of 
considerable importance to all who 
study eloquence? Hence, for what 
purpose, are the omission, and the re¬ 
petition of it, respectively used; and for 
what reason ? To illustrate this more 
fully, what example is given from the 
writings of the apostle Paul ? What is 
the third rule for promoting the strength 
of a sentence ? What must every one 
see; and what is equally plain? What, 
however, cannot be ascertained by any 
precise rule ? With what must this 
vary? What must be studied, in the 
first place; and of the nature of our 
language, what is remarked? In our 
language, where, for the most part, 
are the important words placed? To 
illustrate this remark, what example is 
given; and of this order, what is ob¬ 
served ? What, however, is sometimes 
advantageous ? What example is 
given from Mr. Pope ? From the great 
liberty of inversion, what advantage 
did the Greek and Latin writers enjoy? 
Who endeavoured to imitate them in 
this ? What was the consequence ; and 
why ? What two instances are given 
from Mr. Gordon, to illustrate this re¬ 
mark ? But, notwithstanding these in¬ 
stances, of our language, what is re¬ 
marked ? What example illustrates 
this remark; and of it, what is evident ? 
Of some writers, what is observed? 
what instance is given ; and to it, what 
is owing ? From what will this appear ? 
Of what is he speaking ? Repeat the 
passage. Of this passage, what is ob¬ 
served ? On opening any page of Mr. 
Addison, what will we see ? What ex¬ 
ample is given? How does this style 
compare with the style of Lord 
Shaftesbury ? 

Whether we practice inversion or 
not, what is a point of great moment? 





LfcCT. XII.] 

How is this remark illustrated ? How 
will this be made clearer? Repeat it. Of 
this sentence, what is observed ? What 
does it contain; yet of these, what is 
remarked? Further to illustrate this 
subject, what different arrangement is 
given; and what is said of it ? What 
is the fourth rule for constructing sen¬ 
tences with strength ? What is it call¬ 
ed ; and how is it always considered ? 
Why does this sort of arrangement 
please? What says Quintilian ? Of this 
beauty, whose orations furnish us with 
many examples? What naturally led 
him to the study of it; and what does 
he generally do? What instance is 
given from him, and also from Lord 
Bolingbroke ? What observation must, 
however,be made? What remark fol¬ 
lows ? What is there approaching to a 
climax, which it is a general rule to 
follow ? What twofold reason is there 
for this last direction ? What illustra¬ 
tion follows? In general, what is al¬ 
ways agreeable ? What illustration of 
this remark is given from Mr. Addison? 
What is the fifth rule for the strength 
of sentences ? Of such conclusions, 
what is observed ? There are sentences 
of what kind; and in this case, what 
follows ? What illustration is given 
from Lord Bolingbroke ? Of what parts 
•of speech does our author now speak ; 
and how should they always be dispo¬ 
sed ? Agreeably to this rule, what 
should we always avoid ? What in¬ 
stance is noticed ? Why do all correct 
writers shun this phraseology ? For the 
same reason, what verbs should we 
not employ in closing sentences? In 
preference to which, what should be 
used ? Of the pronoun it, as a closing 
word, what is remarked; and when, 
especially, should it be avoided? In 
what noble sentence from the Specta¬ 
tor, is the bad effect of this close sen¬ 
sibly perceived? With what word 
should it have closed? Besides parti¬ 
cles and pronouns, what always brings 
up the rear of a sentence with a bad 
grace? By what sentence may we 
judge of this? Of the last phrase, to 
say no more , what is observed ? With 
what is the proper disposition of such 
circumstances in a sentence often at¬ 
tended ; and why ? What says Quin¬ 
tilian ? When the sense admits it, 
where should they be placed ? On this 
subject, what rule is given; and with 
what provision? What instance follows? 


133 b 

How would the two circumstances, 
some time ago , and in conversation , 
have had a better effect? What fur¬ 
ther illustration is given from Lord 
Bolingbroke; and how may the ar¬ 
rangement be improved ? What is the 
last rule given, relating to the strength 
of a sentence ? Why is this rule given? 
When it is otherwise, what is the con¬ 
sequence ? Thus, what says Lord Bo¬ 
lingbroke ; and how might the opposi¬ 
tion have been rendered more complete? 
Repeat the passage from Mr. Pope’s 
preface to his Homer, which fully ex¬ 
emplifies this rule? Of periods, thus 
constructed, what is remarked ; but of 
what must we beware? When only 
ought it to be studied ? If such a con¬ 
struction be aimed at in all our senten¬ 
ces, what will be the consequence ? Of 
the style of Isocrates, among the an¬ 
cients, what is remarked? This re¬ 
mark, finishes what? For what two 
reasons has our author insisted on this 
subject fully; and why ? How is this 
illustrated? In what does every one 
feel this ; and what follows ? What is 
the fundamental rule for the construc¬ 
tion of sentences? What arrangements 
strike us as beautiful; and to this point, 
what have tended ? Under what cir¬ 
cumstances, would there be occasion 
for few rules ? What properties would 
their sentences then acquire; and why? 
Of what are embarrassed, obscure, and 
feeble sentences, the result? What have 
here astrictconnexion; and what follows? 

ANALYSIS. 

Strength. 

1. Redundant words. 

a. Redundant members. 

2. Copulatives, relatives, and other 

particles. 

a. The splitting of particles. 

b. The multiplication, and omis¬ 

sion of them. 

c. The copulative and. 

d. Copulatives further illustrated. 

3. The proper disposition of the capi¬ 

tal words. 

a. The advantages of the Greek 

and Latin languages. 

b. The subject further illustrated. 

4. The order of succession in sentences. 

5. Sentences not to be concluded with 

adverbs, &c. 

6. Similarity of language in contrast¬ 

ed sentences. 

7. A fundamental rule. 


QUESTIONS. 






( 134 ) 


LECTURE XIII. 


STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES....HARMONY. 

Hitherto we have considered sentences, with respect to their 
meaning, under the heads of perspicuity, unity, and strength. We 
are now to consider them, with respect to their sound, their har¬ 
mony or agreeableness to the ear; which was the last quality be¬ 
longing to them that I proposed to treat of. 

Sound is a quality much inferior to sense ; yet such as must not 
be disregarded. For, as long as sounds are the vehicle of convey¬ 
ance for our ideas, there will be always a very considerable connex¬ 
ion between the idea which is conveyed, and the nature of the sound 
which conveys it. Pleasing ideas can hardly be transmitted to the 
mind by means of harsh and disagreeable sounds. The imagina¬ 
tion revolts as soon as it hears them uttered. ‘ Nihil,’ says Quintilian, 
6 potest intrare in affectum, quod in aure, velut quodam vestibulo, 
statim offendit. ’* Music has naturally a great power over all men, to 
prompt and facilitate certain emotions; insomuch, that there are 
hardly any dispositions which we wish to raise in others, but certain 
sounds may be found concordant to those dispositions, and tending 
to promote them. Now, language may, in some degree, be ren¬ 
dered capable of this power of music; a circumstance which must 
needs heighten our idea of language as a wonderful invention. Not 
content with simply interpreting our ideas to others, it can give them 
those ideas enforced by corresponding sounds; and, to the pleasure 
of communicating thought, can add the new and separate pleasure 
of melody. 

In the harmony of periods, two things may be considered. First, 
agreeable sound, or modulation in general, without any particular 
expression: Next, the sound so ordered, as to become expressive 
of the sense. The first is the more common; the second, the high¬ 
er beauty. 

First, let us consider agreeable sound, in general, as the proper¬ 
ty of a well-constructed sentence: and, as it was of prose sentences 
we have hitherto treated, we shall confine ourselves to them under 
this head. This beauty of musical construction in prose, it is plain, 
will depend upon two things; the choice of words, and the arrange¬ 
ment of them. 

I begin with the choice of words; on which head, there is not 
much to be said, unless I were to descend into a tedious and frivo¬ 
lous detail concerning the powers of the several letters, or simple 
sounds, of which speech is composed. It is evident, that words 


* * Nothing can enter into the affections, which stumbles at the threshold by offen¬ 
ding the ear.’ 



lect. xin.] HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 


135 


are most agreeable to the ear which are composed of smooth and 
liquid sounds, where there is a proper intermixture of vowels and 
consonants; without too many harsh consonants rubbing against each 
other; or too many open vowels in succession, to cause a hiatus, or 
disagreeable aperture of the mouth. It may always be assumed as 
a principle, that whatever sounds are difficult in pronunciation, are, 
in the same proportion, harsh and painful to the ear. Vowels give 
softness; consonants, strength to the sound of words. The music 
of language requires a just proportion of both; and will be hurt, 
will be rendered either grating or effeminate,by an excess of either. 
Long words are commonly more agreeable to the ear than mono¬ 
syllables. They please it by the composition, or succession of sounds 
which they present to it: and accordingly, the most musical lan¬ 
guages abound most in them. Among words of any length, those 
are the most musical, which do not run wholly either upon long or 
short syllables, but are composed of an intermixture of them; such as 
repent, produce, velocity, celerity, independent , impetuosity . 

The next head, respecting the harmony which results from a 
proper arrangement of the words and members of a period, is more 
complex, and of greater nicety. For, let the words themselves be 
ever so well chosen, and well sounding, yet, if they be ill disposed, 
the music of the sentence is utterly lost. In the harmonious struc¬ 
ture and disposition of periods, no writer whatever, ancient or 
modern, equals Cicero. He had studied this with care; and was 
fond, perhaps to excess, of what he calls, the ‘ Plena ac numerosa 
oratio.’ We need only open his writings to find instances that will 
render the effect of musical language sensible to every ear. What, 
for example, can be more full, round,and swelling, than the follow¬ 
ing sentence of the 4th Oration against Catiline ? ‘ Cogitate quan- 

tis laboribus fundatum imperium, quanta virtute stabilitam liberta- 
tem, quanta Deorum benignitate auctas exaggeratasque fortunas, 
una nox pene delerlt. , In English, we may take, for an instance of 
a musical sentence, the following from Milton, in his Treatise on 
Education: ‘We shall conduct you to a hill-side, laborious indeed, 
at the first ascent; but else, so smooth, so green, so full of gdodly 
prospects, and melodious sounds, on every side, that the harp of Or¬ 
pheus was not more charming.’ Every thing in this sentence con¬ 
spires to promote the harmony. The words are happily chosen; 
full of liquid and soft sounds; laborious, smooth, green,goodly , me- 
lodious, charming: and these words so artfully arranged, that were 
we to alter the collocation of any one of them, we should, present¬ 
ly, be sensible of the melody suffering. For, let us observe, how 
finely the members of the period swell one above another. { So 
smooth, so green’—‘so full of goodly prospects, and melodious 
sounds on every side;’—till the ear, prepared by this gradual rise, 
is conducted to that full close on which it rests with pleasure;—■* that 
the harp of Orpheus was not more charming.’ 

The structure of periods, then, being susceptible of a very sen¬ 
sible melody, our next inquiry should be, how this melodious 
structure is formed, what are the principles of it, and by what laws 


136 


HARMONY OF SENTENCES. [lect. xiix 


it is regulated ? And, upon this subject, were I to follow the ancient 
rhetoricians, it would be easy to give a great variety of rules. For 
here they have entered into a very minute and particular detail; 
more particular, indeed, than on any other head that regards lan¬ 
guage. 1 hey hold, that to prose as well as to verse, there belong 
certain numbers, less strict, indeed, yet such as can be ascertained 
by rule. I hey go so far as to specify the feet as they are called, 
that is, the succession of long and short syllables, which should en¬ 
ter into the different members of a sentence, and to show what the 
effect of each of these will be. Wherever they treat of the struc¬ 
ture of sentences, it is always the music of them that makes thq 
principal object. Cicero and Quintilian are full of this. The 
other qualities of precision, unity, and strength, which we consider 
as of chief importance, they handle slightly; but when they come 
to the ‘junctura et numerics,’ the modulation and harmony , there 
they are copious. Dionysius of Halicarnassus, one of the most ju¬ 
dicious critics of antiquity, has written a treatise on the Composition 
of Words in a Sentence , which is altogether confined to their musical 
effect. He makes the excellency of a sentence to consist in four 
things; first, in the sweetness of single sounds; secondly, in the com¬ 
position of sounds, that is, the numbers or feet; thirdly, in change or 
variety of sound; and fourthly, in sound suited to the sense. On all 
these points he writes with great accuracy and refinement: and is very 
worthy of being consulted ; though were one now to write a book 
on the structure of sentences, we should expect to find the subject 
treated of in a more extensive manner. 

In modern times, this whole subject of the musical structure of 
discourse, it is plain, has been much less studied; and indeed, for 
several reasons, can be much less subjected to rule. The reasons, 
it will be necessary to give, both to justify my not following the 
tract of the ancient rhetoricians on this subject, and to show how it 
has come to pass, that a part of composition, which once made so 
conspicuous a figure, now draws much less attention. 

In the first place, the ancient languages, I mean the Greek and 
the Roman, were much more susceptible, than ours, of the graces 
and the powers of melody. The quantities of their syllables were 
more fixed and determined ; their words were longer and more sono¬ 
rous ; their method of varying the terminations of nouns and verbs, 
both introduced a greater variety of liquid sounds,and freed them 
from that multiplicity of little auxiliary words which we are oblig¬ 
ed to employ; and what is of the greatest consequence, the in¬ 
versions which their languages allowed, gave them the power of pla¬ 
cing their words in whatever order was most suited to a musical ar¬ 
rangement. All these were great advantages which they enjoyed 
above us, for harmony of period. 

In the next place, the Greeks and Romans, the former especially, 
were, in truth, much more musical nations than we; their genius 
was more turned to delight in the melody of speech. Music is 
known to have been a more extensive art among them than it is 
'vith us; more generally studied, and applied to a greater variety 


usct. xiil] HARMONY OF SENTENCES, 


137 


of objects. Several learned men, particularly the Abbe du Bos, 
in his Reflections on Poetry and Painting, have clearly proved, 
that the theatrical compositions of the ancients, both their tragedies 
and comedies, were set to a kind of music. Whence the modos 
fecit , and the tibiis dextris et sinistris, prefixed to the editions of 
Terence’s plays. All sort of declamation and public speaking, was 
carried on by them in a much more musical tone than it is among 
us. It approached to a kind of chanting or recitative. Among the 
Athenians, there was what was called the Nomic melody; or a par¬ 
ticular measure prescribed to the public officers, in which they were 
to promulgate the laws to the people; lest, by reading them with 
improper tones, the law’s might be exposed to contempt. Among 
the Romans, there is a noted story of C. Gracchus, when he was 
declaiming in public, having a musician standing at his back, in or¬ 
der to give him the proper tones with a pipe or flute. Even when 
pronouncing those terrible tribunitial harangues, by which he in¬ 
flamed the one half of the citizens of Rome against the other; 
this attention to the music of speech was, in those times, it 
seems, thought necessary to success. Quintilian, though he con¬ 
demns the excess of this sort of pronunciation, yet allows a 6 can- 
tus obscurior’ to be a beauty in a public speaker. Hence, that 
variety of accents, acute, grave, and circumflex, which we find 
marked upon the Greek syllables, to express, not the quantity of 
them, but the tone in which they were to be spoken; the appli¬ 
cation of which is now wholly unknown to us. And though the Ro¬ 
mans did not mark those accents in their writing, yet it appears from 
Quintilian, that they used them in pronunciation: c Quantum quale ,’ 
says he, ‘ comparantes gravi, interrogantes acuto tenore concludunt.’ 
As, music, then, was an object much more attended to in speech, 
among the Greeks and Romans,than it is with us; as, in all kinds of 
public speaking, they employed a much greater variety of notes, 
of tones or inflections of voice, than we use; this is one clear rea¬ 
son of their paying a greater attention to that construction of sen¬ 
tences, which might best suit this musical pronunciation. 

It is farther known, that, in consequence of the genius of their 
languages, and of their manner of pronouncing them, the musical 
arrangement of sentences did, in fact, produce a greater effect in 
public speaking among them, than it could possibly do in any mo¬ 
dern oration; another reason why it deserved to be more studied. 
Cicero, in his treatise, entitled, Orator , tells us , 6 Conciones saepe 
exclamare vidi, cum verba apte cecidissent. Id enim expectant 
aures.’* And he gives a remarkable instance of the effect of an 
harmonious period upon a whole assembly, from a sentence of one 
of Carbo’s orations, spoken in his hearing. The sentence was, 
6 Patris dictum sapiens temeritas filii comprobavit.’ By means of 
the sound of which, alone, he tells us, ‘Tantus clamor concionis 


* ‘ I have often been witness to bursts of exclamation in the public assemblies, when 
sentences closed musically; for that is a pleasure which the ear expects.’ 

18 



138 


HARMONY OF SENTENCES. [lect. xiii, 

excitatus est, ut prorsus admirable esset.’ He makes us remark the 
feet of which these words consist, to which he ascribes the power 
of the melody; and shows how, by altering the collocation, the 
whole effect would be lost; as thus: ‘Patris dictum sapiens com- 
probavit temeritas filii.’ Now though it be true that Carbo’s sen¬ 
tence is extremely musical, and would be agreeable, at this day, to 
an audience, yet I cannot believe that an English sentence, equally 
harmonious, would, by its harmony alone, produce any such effect 
on a British audience, or excite any such wonderful applause and 
admiration, as Cicero informs us this of Carbo produced. Our 
northern ears are too coarse and obtuse. The melody of speech 
has less power over us; and by our simpler and plainer method of 
uttering words, speech is, in truth, accompanied with less melody 
than it was among the Greeks and Romans.* 

For these reasons, I am of opinion, that it is in vain to think of 
bestowing the same attention upon the harmonious structure of 
our sentences, that was bestowed by these ancient nations. The 
doctrine of the Greek and Roman critics, on this head, has misled 
some to imagine, that it might be equally applied to our tongue; 
and that our prose writing might be regulated by spondees and 
trochees, and iambus’s and paeons, and other metrical feet. But 
first, our words cannot be measured, or, at least, can be measured 
very imperfectly by any feet of this kind. For, the quantity, the 
length, and shortness of our syllables, is far from being so fixed 
and subjected to rule, as in the Greek and Hotnan tongues; but 
very often left arbitrary, and determined by the emphasis, and the 
sense. Next, though our prose could admit of such metrical regu¬ 
lation, yet, from our plainer method of pronouncing all sorts of dis¬ 
course, the effect would not be at all so sensible to the ear, nor be 
relished with so much pleasure, as among the Greeks and Romans : 
and, lastly, this whole doctrine about the measures and numbers of 
prose, even as it is delivered by the ancient rhetoricians themselves, 
is, in truth, in a great measure, loose and uncertain. It appears, 
indeed, that the melody of discourse was a matter of infinitely more 
attention to them, than ever it has been to the moderns. But, though 
they write a great deal about it, they have never been able to re¬ 
duce it to any rules which could be of real use in practice. If we 
consult Cicero’s Orator , where this point is discussed with the most 
minuteness, we shall see how much these ancient critics differed 
from one another, about the feet proper for the conclusion, and 
other parts of a sentence; and how much, after all, was left to the 
judgment of the ear. Nor, indeed, is it possible to give precise rules 
concerning this matter, in any language; as all prose composition must 
be allowed to run loose in its numbers; and accordingas the tenourof a 
discourse varies, the modulation of sentences must vary infinitely. 

* ‘ In versu quidem, theatra tota exclamant si fuit una syllaba aut brevior aut 
longior. Nec ver6 multitude* pedes novit, nec ullos numeros tenet; nec illud quod 
offendit, aut cur, aut in quo offendat, intelligit: et tamen omnium longitudinum et 
brevitatum in sonis sicut acutarum, graviumque vocum, judicium ipsa natura in 
auribus nostris collocavit.’ Cicero. Orator, c. 5. 



lect. xiii.] HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 


139 


But, although I apprehend that this musical arrangement can¬ 
not be reduced into a system, I am far from thinking that it is a 
quality to be neglected in composition. On the contrary, I hold 
its effect to be very considerable; and that every one who studies 
to write with grace, much more, who seeks to pronounce in public 
with success, will be obliged to attend to it not a little. But it is 
his ear, cultivated by attention and practice, that must chiefly di¬ 
rect him ; for any rules that can be given on this subject, are 
very general. Some rules, however, there are, which may be of 
use to form the ear to the proper harmony of discourse. I proceed 
to mention such as appear to me most material. 

There are two things on which the music of a sentence chiefly 
depends. These are the proper distribution of the several members 
of it; and, the close or cadence of the whole. 

First, I say, the distribution of the several members is to be 
carefully attended to. It is of importance to observe, that 
whatever is easy and agreeable to the organs of speech, always 
sounds grateful to the ear. While a period is going on, the termi¬ 
nation of each of its members forms a pause, or rest, in pronounc¬ 
ing: and these rests should be so distributed as to make the course 
of the breathing easy, and, at the same time, should fall at such 
distances, as to bear a certain musical proportion to each other. 
This will be best illustrated by examples. The following sentence 
is from Archbishop Tillotson: 4 This discourse concerning the easi¬ 
ness of God’s commands, does, all along, suppose and acknow¬ 
ledge the difficulties of the first entrance upon a religious course ; 
except only in those persons who have had the happiness to be 
trained up to religion by the easy and insensible degrees of a pious 
and virtuous education.’ Here there is no harmony; nay-, there is 
some degree of harshness and unpleasantness; owing principally to 
this, that there is, properly, no more than one pause or rest in 
the sentence, fallingbetwixtthe two members into which it is divided, 
each of which is so long as to occasion a considerable stretch of the 
breath in pronouncing it. 

Observe, now, on the other hand, the ease with which the fol¬ 
lowing sentence, from Sir William Temple, glides along, and the 
graceful intervals at which the pauses are placed. He is speaking 
sarcastically of man: ‘ But, God be thanked, his pride is greater 
than his ignorance, and what he wants in knowledge, he supplies 
by sufficiency. When he has looked about him, as far as he can, 
he concludes, there is no more to be seen; when he is at the end 
of his line, he is at the bottom of the ocean ; when he has shot his 
best, he is sure none ever did, or ever can, shoot better, or beyond 
it. His own reason he holds to be the certain measure of truth; and 
his own knowledge, of what is possible in nature.’* Here every 


* Or this instance. He is addressing himself to Lady Essex, upon the death of her 
child: { I was once in hope, that what was so violent could not be long: but, when I ob¬ 
served your grief to grow stronger with age, and to increase, like a stream, the farther 
it ran; when I saw it draw out to such unhappy consequences, and to threaten, no less 
than your child, your health, and your life,! could no longer forbear this endeavour, 



140 


HARMONY OP SENTENCES. [lect. xiii. 


thing is, at once, easy to the breath, and grateful to the ear; 
and, it is this sort of flowing measure, this regular and proportional 
division of the members of his sentences which renders Sir Wil¬ 
liam Temple’s style always agreeable. I must observe at the same 
time, that a sentence, with too many lests, and these placed at in¬ 
tervals too apparently measured and regular, is apt to savour of 
affectation. 

The next thing to be attended to, is, the close or cadence of the 
whole sentence, which, as it is always the part most sensible to the 
ear, demands the greatest care. So Quintilian; ‘Non igitur du¬ 
rum sit, neque abruptum, quo animi, velut, respirant, ac reficiuntur. 
Haec est sedes orationis; hoc auditor expectat; hie laus omnis de- 
clamat.’* * The only important rule that can be given here, is, that 
when we aim at dignity or elevation, the sound should be made to 
grow to the last; the longest members of the period, and the fullest 
and most sonorous words, should be reserved to the conclusion. 
As an example of this, the following sentence of Mr. Addison’s 
may be given: ‘ It fills the mind (speaking of sight) with the 
largest variety of ideas; converses with its objects at the greatest 
distance; and continues the longest in action, without being tired 
or satiated with its proper enjoyments.’ Every reader must be 
sensible of a beauty here, both in the proper division of the mem¬ 
bers and pauses, and the manner in which the sentence is rounded, 
and conducted to a full and harmonious close. 

The same holds in melody, that I observe to take place with re¬ 
spect to significancy : that a falling off at the end, always hurts great¬ 
ly. For this reason, particles, pronouns, and little words, are as un¬ 
gracious to the ear, at the conclusion, as I formerly showed they 
were inconsistent with strength of expression. It is more than pro¬ 
bable, that the sense and the sound have here a mutual influence on 
each other. That which hurts the ear seems to mar the strength of 
the meaning: and that which really degrades the sense, in conse¬ 
quence of this primary effect, appears also to have a bad sound. How 
disagreeable is the following sentence of an author, speaking of the 
Trinity! ‘It is a mystery which we firmly believe the truth of, 
and humbly adore the depth of.’ And how easily might it have 
been mended by this transposition ! ‘ It is a mystery, the truth of 

which we firmly believe, and the depth of which we humbly adore.’ 
In general it seems to hold, that a musical close, in our language, 
requires either the last syllable, or the last but one, to be a long 
syllable. Words which consist only of short syllables, as, con¬ 
trary , particular , retrospect , seldom conclude a sentence har¬ 

bor end it without begging of you, for God’s sake and for your own, for your children 
and your friends, your country and your family, that you would no longer abandon 
yourself to a disconsolate passion ; but that you would at length awaken your piety, 
give way to your prudence, or, at least, rouse the invincible spirit of the Percys, that 
never yet shrunk at any disaster.’ 

* ‘ Let there be nothing harsh or abrupt in the conclusion of the sentence, on which 
the mind pauses and rests. This is the most material part in the structure of discourse. 
Here every hearer expects to be gratified; here his applause breaks forth.’ 



lect. xm.] HARMONY OP SENTENCES. 


141 


moniously, unless a run of long syllables, before, has rendered them 
agreeable to the ear. 

It is necessary, however, to observe, that sentences so constructed 
as to make the sound always swell and grow towards the end, and to 
rest either on a long or a penult long syllable, give a discourse the 
tone of declamation. The ear soon becomes acquainted with the 
melody, and is apt to be cloyed with it. If we would keep up the 
attention of the reader or hearer, if we would preserve vivacity and 
strength in our composition, we must be very attentive to vary our 
measures. This regards the distribution of the members, as well 
as the cadence of the period. Sentences constructed in a similar 
manner, with the pauses falling at equal intervals, should never follow 
one another. Short sentences should be intermixed with long and 
swelling ones, to render discourse sprightly, as well as magnificent. 
Even discords, properly introduced, abrupt sounds, departures from 
regular cadence, have sometimes a good effect. Monotony is a 
great fault into which writers are apt to fall, who are fond of harmo¬ 
nious arrangement: and to have only one tune, or measure, is not 
much better than having none at all. A very vulgar ear will enable 
a writer to catch some one melody, and to form the run of his sen¬ 
tences according to it; which soon proves disgusting. But a just 
and correct ear is requisite for varying and diversifying the melody; 
and hence we so seldom meet with authors, who are remarkably hap¬ 
py in this respect. 

Though attention to the music of sentences must not be neglect¬ 
ed, yet it must also be kept within proper bounds: for all appear¬ 
ances of an author’s affecting harmony, are disagreeable: especially 
when the love of it betrays him so far, as to sacrifice, in any in¬ 
stance, perspicuity, precision, or strength of sentiment, to sound. 
All unmeaning words, introduced merely to round the period, or fill 
up the melody, complement a numerorum , as Cicero calls them, are 
great blemishes in writing. They are childish and puerile ornaments, 
by which a sentence always loses more in point of weight, than it 
can gain by such additions to the beauty of its sound. Sense has its 
own harmony, as well as sound; and, where the sense of a period is 
expressed with clearness, force, and dignity, it will seldom happen 
but the words will strike the ear agreeably; at least, a very 
moderate attention is all that is requisite for making the cadence of 
such a period pleasing: and the effect of greater attention is often 
no other, than to render composition languid and enervated. After 
all the labour which Quintilian bestows on regulatingthe measures of 
prose, he comes at last, with his usual good sense, to this conclusion: 

6 Inuniversum,sisitnecesse,durampotiusatque asperam compositio- 
nem malimesse, quam effeminatamac enervem, qualis apud multos. 
Idecque, vincta quaedam de industria sunt solvenda, ne laborata vide- 
antur; neque ullum idoneum aut aptum verbum praetermittamus, 
gratia lenitatis.’* (Lib. ix. c. 4.) 


* < Upon the whole, I would rather choose that composition should appear 
rough and harsh, if that be necessary, than that it should be enervated and effem- 



142 


HARMONY OF SENTENCES. [lect. xiii. 


Cicero, as I before observed, is one of the most remarkable pat¬ 
terns of a harmonious style. His love of it, however, is too visible, 
and the pomp of his numbers sometimes detracts from his strength. 
That noted close of his, esse videatur, which, in the Oration Pro 
Lege Maniiia, occurs eleven times, exposed him to censure among 
his contemporaries. We must observe, however, in defence of this 
great orator, that there is a remarkable union,in his style, of harmo¬ 
ny with ease, which is always a great beauty; and if his harmony be 
studied, that study appears to have cost him little trouble. 

Among our English classics, not many are distinguished for musi¬ 
cal arrangment. Milton, in some of his prose works, has very fine¬ 
ly turned periods; but the writers of his age indulged a liberty of 
inversion, which now would be reckoned contrary to purity of 
style; and though this allowed their sentences to be more stately 
and sonorous, yet it gave them too much of a Latinised construction 
and order. Of later writers, Shaftesbury is, upon the whole, the 
most correct in his numbers. As his ear was delicate, he has at¬ 
tended to music in all his sentences; and he is peculiarly happy in 
this respect, that he has avoided the monotony into which writers, 
who study the grace of sound, are very apt to fall; having diversi¬ 
fied his periods with great variety. Mr. Addison has also much 
harmony in his style; more easy and smooth, but less varied, than 
Lord Shaftesbury. Sir William Temple is, in general, very flowing 
and agreeable. Archbishop Tillotson, is too often careless and 
languid ; and is much outdone by Bishop Atterbury in the music 
of his periods. Dean Swift despised musical arrangement alto¬ 
gether. 

Hitherto I have discoursed of agreeable sound, or modulation, in 
general. It yet remains to treat of a higher beauty of this kind ; 
the sound adapted to the sense. The former was no more than a 
simple accompaniment, to please the ear; the latter supposes a pe¬ 
culiar expression given to the music. We may remark two degrees 
of it: First, the current of sound, adapted to the tenour of a dis¬ 
course; next, a particular resemblance effected between some ob¬ 
ject and the sounds that are employed in describing it. 

First, I say, the current of sound maybe adapted to the tenour of 
a discourse. Sounds have, in many respects, a correspondence with 
our ideas; partly natural, partly the effect of artificial associations. 
Hence it happens, that any one modulation of sound continued, im¬ 
prints on our style a certain character and expression. Sentences con¬ 
structed with the Ciceronian fulness and swell, produce the impression 
of what is important, magnificent, sedate: for this is the natural tone 
which such a course of sentiment assumes. But they suit no vio¬ 
lent passion, no eager reasoning, no familiar address. These always 
require measures brisker, easier, and often more abrupt. And, 

inate, such as we find the style of too many. Some sentences, therefore, which we 
have studiously formed into melody, should be thrown loose, that they may not seem 
too much laboured : nor ought we ever to omit any proper or expressive word, for the 
sake of smoothing a period.’ 



lect. xiii.] HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 


143 


therefore, to swell, or to let down the periods, as the subject de¬ 
mands, is a very important rule in oratory. No one tenour, what¬ 
ever, supposing it to produce no bad effect from satiety, will answer 
to all different compositions; nor even to all the parts of the same 
composition. It were as absurd to write a panegyric, and an invec¬ 
tive, in a style of the same cadence, as to set the words of a tender 
love-song to the air of a warlike march. 

Observe, how finely the following sentence of Cicero, is adapted 
to represent the tranquillity and ease of a satisfied state. 4 Etsi ho- 
mini nihil est magis optandum quam prospera, aequabilis, perpetua- 
que lortuna, secundo vitae sine ulla offensione eursu; tamen, si mihi 
tranquilla etplacata omnia fuissentincredibili quadam et pene divi- 
na, qua nunc vestro beneficio fruor, laetitise voluptate caruissem. 7 * 
Nothing was ever more perfect in its kind: it paints, if we may so 
speak, to the ear. But, who would not have laughed, if Cicero had 
employed such periods, or such a cadence as this, in inveighing 
against Mark Antony, or Catiline ? What is requisite, therefore, is, 
that we previously fix, in our mind, a just idea of the general tone 
of sound which suits our subject; that is, which the sentiments we 
are to express most naturally assume, and in which they most com¬ 
monly vent themselves; whether round or smooth, or stately and 
solemn, or brisk and quick, or interrupted and abrupt. This gene¬ 
ral idea must direct the modulation of our periods; to speak in the 
style of music, must give us the key note, must form the ground of 
the melody; varied and diversified in parts, according as either our 
sentiments are diversified, or as is requisite for producing a suitable 
variety to gratify the ear. 

It may be proper to remark, that, our translators of the Bible have 
often been happy in suiting their numbers to the subject. Grave, 
solemn, and majestic subjects, undoubtedly require such an arrange¬ 
ment of words as runs much on long syllables; and, particularly, they 
require the close to rest upon such. The very first verses of the 
Bible, are remarkable for this melody; 4 In the beginning, God cre¬ 
ated the heavens and the earth; and the earth was without form 
and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep; and the 
Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. 7 Several other 
passages, particularly some of the Psalms, afford striking examples 
of this sort of grave, melodious construction. Any composition 
that arises considerably above the ordinary tone of prose, such as 
monumental inscriptions, and panegyrical characters, naturally runs 
into numbers of this kind. 

But in the next place, besides the general correspondence of the 
current of sound with the current of thought, there may be a more 
particular expression attempted, of certain objects, by means of re¬ 
sembling sounds. This can be, sometimes, accomplished in prose 
composition; but there only in a more faint degree; nor is it so 
much expected there. In poetry, chiefly, it is looked for; where 
attention to sound is more demanded, and where the inversions and 


Orat. ad Quirites, post Reditum. 



M4 


HARMONY OF SENTENCES. [lect. xnf, 

liberties of poetical style give us a greater command of sound ; as¬ 
sisted, too, by the versification, and that cantus obscurior , to which 
we are naturally led in reading poetry. This requires a little more 
illustration. 

The sounds of words may be employed for representing, chiefly, 
three classes of objects; first, other sounds; secondly, motion; and 
thirdly, the emotions and passions of the mind. 

First, I say, by a proper choice of words, we may produce a re¬ 
semblance of other sounds which we mean to describe, such as, the 
noise of waters, the roaring of winds, or the murmuring of streams. 
This is the simplest instance of this sort of beauty. For the medium 
through which we imitate here, is a natural one; sounds represent¬ 
ed by other sounds; and between ideas of the same sense, it is easy 
to form a connexion. No very great art is required in a poet when 
he is describing sweet and soft sounds, to make use of such words as 
have most liquids and vowels, and glide the softest; or, when he is 
describing harsh sounds, to throw together a number of harsh sylla¬ 
bles which are of difficult pronunciation. Here the common struc¬ 
ture of language assists him; for it will be found, that in most lan¬ 
guages, the names of many particular sounds are so formed, as to 
carry some affinity to the sound which they signify; as with us, the 
ivhistling of winds, the buz and hum of insects, the hiss of serpents, 
the crash of falling timber; and many other instances, where the 
word has been plainly framed upon the sound it represents. I shall 
produce a remarkable example of this beauty from Milton, taken 
from two passages in Paradise Lost, describing the sound made, in 
the one, by the opening of the gates of hell; in the other, by the 
opening of those of heaven. The contrast between the two, dis¬ 
plays, to great advantage, the poet’s art. The first is the opening 
of hell’s gates: 

-On a sudden, open fly, 

With impetuous recoil, and jarring sound, 

Th’ infernal doors; and on their hinges grate 
Harsh thunder.- 

Observe, now, the smoothness of the other: 

---Heaven opened wide 

Her ever-during gates, harmonious sound, 

On golden hinges turning.- 

The following beautiful passage from Tasso’s Gierusalemme, has 
been often admired on account of the imitation effected by sound 
of the thing represented : 

Chiama gli habitator de l’ombre eterne 
II rauco suon de la Tartareo tromba: 

Treman le spaciose atra caverne, 

Et l’aer cieco a quel rumor rimbomba; 

Ni stridendo cosi de la superne 
Regioni dele cielo, il folgor piomba; 

Ne si scossa giammai la terra, 

Quand i vapori in sen gravida serra. Cant. iv. Stanz. 4 . 

The second class of objects, which the sound of words is often 
employed to imitate, is motion; as it is swift or slow, violent or 


B.i, 


13. ii. 






LECT. xm.] HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 


145 


gentle, equable or interrupted, easy or accompanied with effort. 
Though there be no natural affinity between sound, of any kind, 
and motion, yet, in the imagination, there is a strong one; as ap¬ 
pears from the connexion between music and dancing. And there¬ 
fore, here it is in the poet’s power to give us a lively idea of the 
kind ol motion he would describe, by means of sounds which cor¬ 
respond, in our imagination, with that motion. Long syllables natu¬ 
rally give the impression of slow motion; as in this line of Virgil: 

Olli inter sese magna vi brachia tollunt. 

A succession of shortsyllables presents quick motion to the mind; as 

Quadrupedante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum. 

Both Homer and Virgil are great masters of this beauty; and their 
works abound with instances of it; most of them, indeed, so often 
quoted, and so well known, that it is needless to produce them. I shall 
give one instance, in English, which seems happy. It is the descrip¬ 
tion of a sudden calm on the seas, in a poem, entitled, The Fleece. 

-With easy course 

The vessels glide; unless their speed be stopp'd 
By dead calms, that oft lie on these smooth seas 
When every zephyr sleeps ; then the shrouds drop ; 

The downy feather, on the cordage hung, 

Moves not; the flat sea shines like yellow gold 
Fus’d in the fire, or like the marble floor 
Of some old temple wide.- 

The third set of objects which I mentioned the sound of words 
as capable of representing, consists of the passions and emotions of 
the mind. Sound may, at first view, appear foreign to these; but, 
that here also, there is some sort of connexion, is sufficiently pro¬ 
ved by the power which music has to awaken, or to assist certain 
passions, and, according as its strain is varied, to introduce one train 
of ideas, rather than another. This, indeed, logically speaking, 
cannot be called a resemblance between the sense and the sound, 
seeing long or short syllables have no natural resemblance to any 
thought or passion. But if the arrangement of syllables, by their 
sound alone, recall one set of ideas more readily than another, and 
dispose the mind for entering into that affection which the poet 
means to raise, such arrangement may, justly enough, be said to 
resemble the sense, or be similar and correspondent to it. I admit, 
that, in many instances, which are supposed to display this beauty 
of accommodation of sound to the sense, there is much room for 
imagination to work ; and, according as a reader is struck by a pas¬ 
sage, he will often fancy a resemblance between the sound and the 
sense, which others cannot discover. He modulates the numbers to 
his own disposition of mind; and, in effect, makes the music which 
he imagines himself to hear. However, that there are real instan¬ 
ces of this kind, and that poetry is capable of some such expression, 
cannot be doubted. Dryden’s Ode on St. Cecilia’s Day, affords a 
very beautiful exemplification of it, in the English language. With¬ 
out' much study or reflection, a poet describing pleasure, joy, and 

19 




QUESTIONS. 


146 


[lect. XIII, 


agreeable objects, from the feeling of his subject, naturally runs into 
smooth, liquid, and flowing numbers : 

-Namque ipsa dccoram 

Caesariem nato genetrix, lumenque juventse 

Purpureum, et lsetos oculis afflarat honores. JE n. I. 

Or, 

Devenere locos laetos et amsena vireta 
Fortunatorum, memorum, sedesque beatas ; 

Largior hie campos aether, et lurnine vestit 

Purpureo, solemque suum, sua sidera norant. IE N. VI. 

Brisk and lively sensations, exact quicker and more animated num¬ 
bers : 

—-Juvenum manus emicat ardens 

Littus in Hesperium. IE n. VII. 

Melancholy and gloomy subjects, naturally express themselves in 
slow measures, and long words : 

In those deep solitudes and awful cells, 

Where heavenly pensive contemplation dwells. 

Et caligantem nigra formidine lucum. 

I have now given sufficient openings into this subject: a moderate 
acquaintance with the good poets, either ancient or modern, will 
suggest many instances of the same kind. And with this I finish the 
discussion of the structure of sentences : having fully considered 
them under all the heads I mentioned; of perspicuity, unity, strength, 
and musical arrangement. 


(iUESTIONS, 


How have we hitherto considered 
sentences; and how are we now to 
consider them ? Of sound, what is ob¬ 
served ; and why must it not be disre¬ 
garded? What remark follows ? What 
is their effect on the imagination? 
What says Quintilian ? How extensive 
is the power of music over mankind ? 
Of what, therefore, may language be 
rendered capable; and of what must 
this heighten our ideas ? What remark 
follows ? In the harmony of periods, 
what two things maybe considered? 
Of them, respectively, what is obser¬ 
ved ? First, then, what shall we consi¬ 
der ; and to what shall we confine our¬ 
selves ? This beauty of musical con¬ 
struction in prose, will depend upon what 
two things ? With what does our au¬ 
thor begin; and on this head, what is 
observed ? What words, is it evident, 
are most agreeable to the ear ? What 
may alwaysbe assumed as a principle? 
What do vowels and consonants, re¬ 
spectively, give to the sound of a word? 
What does the music of language re¬ 
tire ; and what will be the effect of 
an excess in either ? Which are most 
agreeable to the ear? By what do 
they please it; and what follows? 


Among words of any length, which 
are the most musical; and what ex¬ 
amples are given ? Of the next head, 
what is observed; and why ? In the 
harmonious structure and disposition 
of periods, who excelled all other wri¬ 
ters ? What is said of him; and what 
example is given ? In English, from 
whom is a sentence selected ; and what 
is it ? What is said of it ? The struc¬ 
ture of periods being susceptible of 
very considerable melody, what is our 
next inquiry ? Were we to follow the 
ancient rhetoricians upon this subject, 
why would it be easy to give a great 
variety of rules ? What do they hold ; 
and how far do they go ? What, con¬ 
sequently, follows? Who are full of 
this? What qualities do they handle 
slightly; and where are they copious ? 
01 Dionysius of Halicarnassus, what is 
observed; and what has he done ? In 
what four things does he make the ex¬ 
cellence of a sentence to consist ? On 
all these points, how does he write; 
and what follows ? Of this whole sub¬ 
ject of musical structure of discourse, 
what is observed ? Why will it be ne¬ 
cessary to give the reasons for this? 
What, is the first, reason assigned ; and 








QUESTIONS. 


146 a 


LECT. XIII.] 

why ? What is the next reason assign¬ 
ed? Of music, among them, what is 
observed ? What have several learned 
men clearly proved; and what fol¬ 
lows ? How was all sort of declama¬ 
tion and public speaking carried on by 
them ; and to what did it approach ? 
Among the Athenians, what existed ? 
Among the Romans, what noted story 
prevails? What remark follows? Of 
Quintilian, what is here observed? 
Hence, what do we find marked upon 
the Greek syllables ; and for what pur¬ 
pose ? Of the Romans, what is here 
observed? What is one clear reason 
why the Greeks and Romans paid 
much greater attention to the musical 
construction of their sentences than we 
do? What is further known, as an¬ 
other reason why it deserved to be more 
studied ? What does Cicero tell us; 
and what does he give ? By means of 
the sound of which, alone, what effect 
does he tell us was produced ? Though 
it be true that Car bo’s sentence is ex¬ 
tremely musical, yet, what cannot our 
author believe; why; and what fol¬ 
lows ? For these reasons, of what is it 
in vain to think ? Wliat has the doc¬ 
trine of the Greeks and Romans, on 
this head, misled some to imagine ? On 
this subject, what is first remarked ; and 
why ? What is the next remark ? And 
lastly, of this whole doctrine, what is 
remarked ? Of the attention of the an¬ 
cients to the melody of discourse, what 
is further observed ? If we consult Ci¬ 
cero’s Orator , what shall we see ? 
Why is it not possible to give precise 
rules concerning this matter, in any 
language ? Notwithstanding this musi¬ 
cal arrangement cannot be reduced 
into any system, yet what is our au¬ 
thor far from thinking ? On the con¬ 
trary, what does he hold; and what 
follows? What, in this, must chiefly 
direct him ; and why ? On what two 
things does the music of a sentence 
chiefly depend? In the proper distri¬ 
bution of the several members of a sen¬ 
tence, what is it ofimportance to observe? 
While the period is going on, what 
does the termination of each of its mem¬ 
bers form ; and how should these rests 
be distributed ? By what example will 
this be best illustrated ? Why is there 
not, in this sentence, any harmony? 
On the other hand, what shall we ob¬ 
serve ? Of what is he speaking ? Re¬ 
peat the passage. Of this passage, 

Y 


what is observed; and to this sort of 
flowing measure, what must be attri¬ 
buted ? What must, however, at the 
same time be observed ? 

What is the next thing to be attend¬ 
ed to? What says Quintilian on this 
subject? When we aim at dignity, 
what is the only important rule that 
can be given ? What example of this 
is given ? Hence, of what must every 
reader be sensible ? Why does a fall¬ 
ing off at the end injure the melody of 
a sentence ? What is here more than 
probable; and for what reason ? To 
illustrate this remark, what example 
is given ; and how might it be correct¬ 
ed ? In general, what seems to hold 
true? Under what circumstances only, 
do short syllables conclude a sentence 
harmoniously? What sentences is it 
necessary, however, to observe, give a 
discourse the tone of declamation; and 
why ? If we would keep up the atten¬ 
tion of the reader or hearer, what is 
requisite ? What does this equally re¬ 
gard ? What sentences should never 
follow one another ? Why should short 
sentences be intermixed with long ones; 
and even what have sometimes a good 
effect ? Of monotony, what is observed ; 
what writers are apt to fall into it; 
and what follows ? How are a very 
vulgar ear, and a just and correct one, 
here contrasted ? Though attention to 
the music of sentences must not be 
neglected, yet why must it be kept 
in proper bounds? What are great 
blemishes in writing; and why ? As 
sense has its own harmony, as well as 
sound, what follows ? To what conclu¬ 
sion does Quintilian, after all the labour 
which he bestows to regulate the 
measure of prose, come ? What is here 
said of Cicero ; and what must we ob¬ 
serve in his defence ? Among the few 
English classical writers, what is re¬ 
marked of Milton, and of the writers of 
the age in which he lived ? Of Lord 
Shaftesbury, what is observed ; and 
also of Mr. Addison, Sir William Tem¬ 
ple, Archbishop Tillotson, Bishop At- 
terbury, and Dean Swift ? Hitherto, of 
what has our author discoursed; and 
what yet remains ? How are these con¬ 
trasted ? What are the two degrees of 
it, which we may remark ? With what 
have sounds a correspondence; and 
hence, what happens? WTiat is the 
effect of sentences constructed after the 
Ciceronian fulness; and why ? What 



146 b QUESTIONS. [lect. xiii. 

is given? Of Homer and Virgil, what is 
here observed ? What happy instance 
is given in English ? In what does the 
third set of objects, which the sounds of 
words are capable of representing, con¬ 
sist? What remark follows? What, 
cannot this be called; and why? But 
what follows ? What is here admitted ? 
What follows; and what examples are 
given ? Without much study, what 
may a poet do? Of brisk and lively, 
and also of melancholy sensations, 
what is observed ? What is the closing 
remark ? 

ANALYSIS. 

Harmony. 

1. Sounds without reference to sense. 

a. The choice of words. 

b. The arrangement of words and 
members of periods. 

a. The advantages of the Greeks 
and Romans. 

b. The proper distribution of the 
members of a sentence. 

c. The close or cadence of the 
whole. 

2. Sounds adapted to the sense. 

a. Adapted to the tenour of a dis¬ 
course. 

b. Resemblance between the sound 
and the object described. 

a. Other sounds. 

b. Motion. 

c. Emotions and passions. 

LECTURE XIV* ", 

ORIGIN AND NATURE OF FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 

Having now finished what related to the construction of sen¬ 
tences, I proceed to other' rules concerning style. My general di¬ 
vision of the qualities of style, was into perspicuity and ornament. 
Perspicuity, both in single words and in sentences, 1 have considered. 
Ornament, as far as it arises from a graceful, strong, and melodious 
construction of words, has also been treated of. Another, and a 
great branch of the ornament of style, is, figurative language ; which 
is now to be the subject of our consideration, and will require a full 
discussion. 

Our firs* inquiry must be, what is meant by figures of speech ?* 

In general, + hey always imply some departure from simplicity of 

* On the subject of figures of speech, all the writers who treat of rhetoric or composi¬ 
tion, have insisted largely. To make references, therefore, on this subject, were endless. 
On the foundations of figurative language, in general, one of the most sensible and in¬ 
structive writers appears to me to be M. Marsais, in his Traite des Tropes pour servir 
d Introduction a ca Rhetorique et a la Logique. P or observations on particular figures, 
the Elements of Criticism may be consulted, where the subject is fully handled, and il¬ 
lustrated by a great variety of examples. 


do they not. suit; and what do these 
require? What, therefore, follows? 
How is this illustrated ; and what were 
observed ? Of the sentence here intro¬ 
duced from Cicero, what is remarked ? 
To have used the same periods where, 
would have been laughable; and 
hence, what is requisite? What must 
this general idea direct ? What may it 
be proper here to remark? What do 
grave, solemn, and majestic subjects, 
require ? Where are examples of this 
to be found ; and what, naturally runs 
into numbers of this kind ? But, in the 
next place, what is remarked ? Where 
can this, sometimes, be accomplish¬ 
ed ; but where is it to be chiefly looked 
for ; and why ? What three classes of 
objects may sounds of* words be em¬ 
ployed to represent ? First, by a proper 
choice of words, what may be pro¬ 
duced ; and why ? How is this illus¬ 
trated ? Here, what assists him; and 
why? What examples are given? 
What remarkable example of this 
beauty is produced from Milton ? Re¬ 
peat the passages. What other beauti¬ 
ful passage is given for the same pur¬ 
pose? In the second place, what diffe¬ 
rent kinds of motion are imitated by 
sounds of words? What observation 
follows; and, therefore, here, what is 
in the poet’s power ? What impression 
do long syllables give ; of which, what 
example have we ? What is the effect 
of short syllables; and what example 











*»cr. xiv.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 


147 


expression ; the idea which we intend to convey, not only enunciat¬ 
ed to others, but enunciated, in a particular manner, and with some 
circumstance added, which is designed to render the impression 
more strong and vivid. When I say, for instance, 4 That a good 
man enjoys comfort in the midst of adversity.;’ I just express my 
thought in the simplest manner possible. But when I say, 4 To the 
upright there ariseth light in darkness;’ the same sentiment is ex¬ 
pressed in a figurative style; a new circumstance is introduced; 
light is put in the place of comfort, and darkness is used to suggest 
the idea of adversity. In the same manner, to say, 4 It is impossi¬ 
ble, by any search we can make, to explore the divine nature fully,’ 
is to make a simple proposition. But when we say, 4 Canst thou, by 
searching, find out God ? Canst thou find out the Almighty to perfec¬ 
tion? It is high as heaven, what canst thou do? deeper than hell, 
what canst thou know?’ This introduces a figure into style; the 
proposition being not only expressed, but admiration and astonish¬ 
ment being expressed together with it. 

But, though figures imply a deviation from what may be reckoned 
the most simple form of speech, we are not thence to conclude, 
that they imply any thing uncommon, or unnatural. This is so 
far from being the case, that, on very many occasions, they are 
both the most natural, and the most common method of uttering 
our sentiments. It is impossible to compose any discourse without 
using them often; nay, there are few sentences of any length, in 
which some expression or other, that may be termed-a figure, does 
not occur From what causes this happens, shall be afterwards ex¬ 
plained. The fact, in the mean time, shows, that they are to be 
accounted part of that language which nature dictates to men. 
They are not the inventions of the schools, nor the mere product of 
study: on the contrary, the most illiterate speak in figures, as of¬ 
ten as the most learned. Whenever the imaginations of the vulgar 
are much awakened, or their passions inflamed against one another, 
they will pour fourth a torrent of figurative language as forcible as 
could be employed by the most artificial declaimer. 

What then is it, which has drawn the attention of critics and 
rhetoricians so much to these forms of speech? It is this: They 
remarked, that in them consists much of the beauty and the force 
of language; and found them always to bear some characters, or 
disti guishing marks, by the help of which they could reduce them 
under separate classes and heads. To this, perhaps, they owe their 
name of figures. As the figure, or shape of one body, distinguishes 
it from another, so these forms of speech have, each of them, a 
cast or turn peculiar to itself, which both distinguishes it from 
the rest, and distinguishes it from simple expression. Simple expres¬ 
sion just makes our idea known to others; but figurative language, 
over and above, bestows a particular dress upon that idea; a dress, 
which both makes it to be remarked, and adorns it. Hence, this sort 
of language became early a capital object of attention to those who 
studied the powers of speech. 

Figures, in general, may be described to be that language, which 


148 


ORIGIN AND NATURE OF [lect. xiv. 


is prompted either by the imagination, or by the passions. The 
justness of this description will appear, from the more particular ac¬ 
count 1 am afterwards to give of them. Rhetoricians commonly 
divide them into two great classes; figures of words, and figures 
of thought The former, figures of words, are commonly called 
tropes, and consist in a word’s being employed to signify something 
that is different from its original and primitive meaning; so that if 
you alter the word, you destroy the figure. Thus, in the instance 
I gave before; 4 Light ariseth to the upright in darkness.’ The 
trope consists in 4 light and darkness’ being not meant literally, but 
substituted for comfort and adversity, on account of some resem¬ 
blance or analogy which they are supposed to bear to these con¬ 
ditions of life. The other class, termed figures of thought, suppo¬ 
ses the words to be used in their proper and literal meaning, and 
the figure to consist in the turn of the thought; as is the case in ex¬ 
clamations, interrogations, apostrophes, and comparisons; where, 
though you vary the words that are used, or translate them from one 
language into another, you may, nevertheless, still preserve the same 
figure in the thought. This distinction, however, is of no great 
use, as nothing can be built upon it in practice; neither is it always 
very clear. It is of little importance, whether we give to some par¬ 
ticular mode of expression the name of a trope, or of a figure; 
provided we remember, that figurative language always imports some 
colouring of the imagination, or from some emotion of passion, ex¬ 
pressed in our style: and, perhaps, figures of imagination, and figures 
of passion, might be a more useful distribution of the subject. 
But without insisting on any artificial divisions, it will be more 
useful, that I inquire into the origin and the nature of figures. On¬ 
ly, before I proceed to this, there are two general observations 
which it may be proper to premise. 

The first is, concerning the use of rules with respect to figurative 
language. I admit, that persons may both speak and write with 
propriety, who know not the names of any of the figures of speech, 
nor ever studied any rules relating to them. Nature, as was before 
observed, dictates the use of figures; and, like Mons. Jourdain, in 
Moliere, who had spoken for forty years in prose, without ever 
knowing it, many a one uses metaphorical expressions to good pur¬ 
pose, without any idea of what a metaphor is. It will not, how¬ 
ever, follow thence, that rules are of no service. Aik science arises 
from observations on practice. Practice has always gone befqre me¬ 
thod and rule; but method and rule have afterwards improved and 
perfected practice in every art. We every day meet with persons 
who sing agreeably without knowing one note of the gamut. Yet, it 
has been found of importance to reduce these notes to a scale, and 
to form an art of music ; and it would be ridiculous to pretend, that 
the art is of no advantage, because the practice is founded in nature. 
Propriety and beauty of speech, are certainly as improveable as the 
ear or the voice; and to know the principles of this beauty, or the rea¬ 
sons which render one figure, or one manner of speech,preferable to 
another, cannot fail to assist and direct a proper choice. 


lect. xiv.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 


149 


But I must observe, in the next place, that although this part of 
style merits attention, and is a very proper object of science and 
rule; although much of the beauty of composition depends on 
figurative language; yet we must beware of imagining that it de¬ 
pends solely, or even chiefly, upon such language. It is not so. 
The great place which the doctrine of tropes and figures has occu¬ 
pied in systems of rhetoric; the over-anxious care which has been 
shown in giving names to avast variety of them, and in ranging them 
under different classes, has often led persons to imagine, that if 
their composition was well bespangled with a number of these orna¬ 
ments of speech, it wanted no other beauty: whence has arisen much 
stiffness and affectation. For it is, in truth, the sentiment or pas¬ 
sion, which lies under the figured expression, that gives it any merit. 
The figure is only the dress; the sentiment is the body and the sub¬ 
stance. No figures will render a cold or an emptyi composition in¬ 
teresting ; whereas, if a sentiment be sublime or pathetic, it can 
support itself perfectly well, without any borrowed assistance. 
Hence, several of the most affecting and admired passages of the 
best authors, are expressed in the simplest language. The follow¬ 
ing sentiment from Virgil, for instance, makes its way at once to 
the heart, without the help of any figure whatever. He is descri¬ 
bing an Argive, who falls in battle, in Italy, at a great distance from 
his native country: 

Sternitur, infelix, alieno vulnere, ccelumque 

Aspicit, et dulcis moriens reminiscitur Argos.* j3En. x. 781. 

A single stroke of this kind, drawn as by the very pencil of na¬ 
ture, is worth a thousand figures. In the same manner, the sim¬ 
ple style of scripture: ‘He spoke, and it was done; he command¬ 
ed, and it stood fast/ 4 God said, let there be light; and there 
was light;’ imparts a lofty conception,to much greater advantage, 
than if it had been decorated by the most pompous metaphors. The 
fact is,that the strong pathetic, and the pure sublime, not only have 
little dependence on figures of speech, but generally reject them. 
The proper region of these ornaments is, where a moderate degree 
of elevation and passion is predominant; and there they contribute 
to the embellishment of discourse, only when there is a basis 


* “ Anthares had from Argos travell’d far, 

Alcides’ friend, and brother of the war ; 

Now falling, by another’s wound, his eyes 
He casts to Heaven, on Argos thinks, and dies.” 

In this translation, much of the beauty of the original is lost. ‘On Argos thinks,and 
dies,’ is by no means equal to ‘dulcis moriens reminiscitur Argos.’ ‘ As he dies he 
remembers his beloved Argos.’ It is indeed observ able, that in most of those tender 
and pathetic passages, which do so much honour to Virgil, that great poet expresses' 
himself with the utmost simplicity ; as 

Te, dulcis conjux, te solo in littore secum, 

Te veniente die, te decedente canebat. Georg. IV. 

And so in that moving prayer of Evander, upon his parting with his son Pallas : 

At vos, O Superi! et Divfim tu maxime rector. 

Jupiter, Arcadii quaeso miserescite regis, 

Et patrias audite pieces. Si numina vestra 



150 


ORIGIN AND NATURE OF 


[lect. XIV. 


of solid thought and natural sentiment; when they are inserted in 
their proper place; and when they rise, of themselves, from the 
subject without being sought after. 

Having premised these observations, I proceed to give an account 
of the origin and nature of figures: principally of such as have their 
dependence on language ; including that numerous tribe which the 
rhetoricians call tropes. 

At the first rise of language, men would begin with giving names 
to the different objects which they discerned, or thought of. This 
nomenclature would, at the beginning, be very narrow. According 
as men’s ideas multiplied, and their acquaintance with objects in¬ 
creased, their stock of names and words would increase also. But 
to the infinite variety of objects and ideas, no language is adequate. 
No language is so copious, as to have a separate word for every se¬ 
parate idea. M^n naturally sought to abridge this labour of multi¬ 
plying words in infinitum ; and, in order to lay less burden on their 
memories, made one word, which they had already appropriated to a 
certain idea or object, stand also for some other idea or object; between 
which and the primary one, they found, or fancied, some relation. 
Thus, the preposition, in, was originally invented to express the cir¬ 
cumstance of place: 4 The man was killed in the wood.’ In pro¬ 
gress of time, words were wanted to express men’s being connected 
with certain conditions of fortune, or certain situations of mind; and 
some resemblance, or analogy, being fancied between these, and the 
place of bodies, the word in, was employed to express men’s being 
so circumstanced ; as, one’s being in health, or in sickness, in pros¬ 
perity or in adversity, mjoy or in grief, in doubt, or in danger, or in 
safety. Here we see this preposition, in, plainly assuming a tropical 
signification, or carried off from its original meaning, to signify some¬ 
thing else which relates to, or resembles it. 

Tropes of this kind abound in all languages, and are plainly ow¬ 
ing to the want of proper words. The operations of the mind and 
affections, in particular, are, in most languages, described by words 
taken from sensible objects. The reason is plain. The names of 
sensible objects were, in all languages, the words most early 
introduced; and were, by degrees, extended to those mental ob¬ 
jects, of which men had more obscure conceptions, and to which 
they found it more difficult to assign distinct names. They borrow¬ 
ed, therefore, the name of some sensible idea, where their imagina¬ 
tion found some affinity. Thus, we speak of a piercing judgment, 
and a clear head ; a soft or a hard heart; a rough or a smooth beha¬ 
viour. We say, inflamed by anger, warmed by love; swelled with 


Incolumem Pallanta mihi, si fata reservant, 

Si visurus eum vivo, et venturus in unum, 

Vitam oro; patiar quemvis durare laborem! 

Sin aliquem infandum casum, Fortuna, minaris, 

Nunc, O nunc liceat crudelem abrumpere vitam ! 

Dum curae ambiguae, dum spes incerta futuri; 

Dum te, chare Puer ! mea sera et sola voluptas? 

Amplexu teneo; gravior ne nuncius aures 

Vulneret- YEn. VIII. 57& 



lbct. xiv.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 


151 


pride, melted into grief; and these are almost the only significant 
words which we have for such ideas. 

But, although the barrenness of languages, and the want of words, be 
doubtless one cause of the invention of tropes ; yet it is not the only, 
nor, perhaps, even the principal source of this form of speech. Tropes 
have arisen more frequently, and spread themselves wider, from the in¬ 
fluence which imagination possesses over language. The train on which 
this has proceeded among all nations, I shall endeavour to explain. 

Every object which makes any impression on the human mind, is 
constantly accompanied with certain circumstances and relations, 
that strike us at the same time. It never presents itself to our view 
isole, as the French express it; that is, independent on, and sepa¬ 
rated from, every other thing; but always occurs as somehow 
related to other objects ; going before them, or following them ; 
their effect or their cause: resembling them, or opposed to them; 
distinguished by certain qualities, or surrounded with certain circum¬ 
stances. By this means, every idea or object carries in its train 
some other ideas, which may be considered as its accessories. These 
accessories often strike the imagination more than the principal idea 
itself. They are, perhaps, more agreeable ideas; or they are more 
familiar to our conceptions; or they recall to our memory a greater 
variety of important circumstances. The imagination is more dis¬ 
posed to rest upon some of them ; and therefore, instead of using 
the proper name of the principal idea which it means to express, it 
employs in its place the name of the accessory or correspondent 
idea; although the principal have a proper and well known name of 
its own. Hence a vast variety of tropical or figurative words obtain 
currency in all languages, through choice, not necessity; and men 
of lively imaginations are every day adding to their number. 

Thus, when we design to intimate the period at which a state en¬ 
joyed most reputation or glory, it were easy to employ the proper 
words for expressing this; but as this is readily connected, in our 
imagination, with the flourishing period of a plant or a tree, we lay 
hold of this correspondent idea, and say, 4 The Roman empire 
flourished most under Augustus.’ The leader of a faction is plain 
language : but because the head is the principal part of the human 
body, and is supposed to direct all the animal operations, resting 
upon this resemblance, we say, 4 Catiline was the head of the par¬ 
ty.’ The word voice, was originally invented to signify the arti¬ 
culate sound, formed by the organs of the mouth ; but, as by means 
of it men signify their ideas and their intentions to each other, voice 
soon assumed a great many other meanings, all derived from this 
primary effect. 4 To give our voice’ for any thing, signified, to 
give our sentiment in favour of it. Not only so; hut voice was 
transferred to signify any intimation of will or judgment, though 
given without the least interposition of voice in its literal sense, or 
any sound uttered at all. Thus we speak of listening to the voice 
of conscience, the voice of nature, the voice of God. This usage 
takes place, not so much from barrenness of language, or want of 
a proper word, as from an allusion which we choose to make to 


152 


ORIGIN AND NATURE OF [lect. xiv. 


voice in its primary sense, in order to convey our idea, connected 
with a circumstance which appears to the fancy to give it more 
sprightliness and force. 

The account which I have now given, and which seems to be a 
full and fair one, of the introduction of tropes into all languages, 
coincides with what Cicero briefly hints, in his third book, De 
Oratore. 4 Modus transferendi verba late patet; quam necessitas 
primum genuit, coacta inopia et angustia ; post autem delectatio, 
jucunditasque celebravit. Nam ut vestis, frigoris depellendi causa 
reperta primo. post adhiberi capta est ad ornatum etiam corporis et 
dignitatem, sic verbi translatio instituta est inopiae causa, frequentata 
delectationis.’* 

From what has been said, it clearly appears how that must come 
to pass, which I had occasion to mention in a former lecture, that 
all languages are most figurative in their early state. Both the cau¬ 
ses to which I ascribed the origin of figures, concur in producing 
this effect at the beginnings of society. Language is then most bar¬ 
ren : the stock of proper names which have been invented for things, 
is small; and, at the same time, imagination exerts great influence 
over the conceptions of men, and their method of uttering them ; 
so that, both from necessity and from choice, their speech will, at 
that period, abound in tropes ; for the savage tribes of men are 
always much given to wonder and astonishment. Every new object 
surprises, terrifies, and makes a strong impression on their mind; 
they are governed by imagination and passion, more than by rea¬ 
son ; and of course, their speech must be deeply tinctured by their 
genius. In fact, we find, that this is the character of the American 
and Indian languages: bold, picturesque, and metaphorical; full of 
.strong allusions to sensible qualities, and to such objects as struck 
them most in their wild and solitary life. An Indian chief makes a 
harangue to his tribe, in a style full of stronger metaphors than an 
European would use in an epic poem. 

As language makes gradual progress towards refinement, almost 
every object comes to have a proper name given to it, and perspi¬ 
cuity and precision are more studied. But still, for the reasons 
before given, borrowed words, or as rhetoricians call them, tropes, 
must continue to occupy a considerable place. In every language, 
too, there are a multitude of words, which, though they were figu¬ 
rative in their first application to certain objects, yet, by long use, 
lose their figurative power wholly, and come to be considered as 
simple and literal expressions. In this case, are the terms which I 
remarked before, as transferred from sensible qualities to the ope¬ 
rations or qualities of the mind, a piercing judgment, a clear head, 


* ‘ The figurative usage of words is very extensive ; an usage to which necessity 
first gave rise, on account of the paucity of words, and barrenness of language ; but 
which the pleasure that was found in it afterwards rendered frequent. For as gar¬ 
ments were first contrived to defend our bodies from the cold, and afterwards were 
employed for the purpose of ornament and dignity, so figures of speech, introduced by- 
want, were cultivated for the sake of entertainment.’ 




lect. xiv.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 


153 


a hard heart, and the like. There are other words which remain in a 
sort of middle state ; which have neither lost wholly their figurative 
application, nor yet retain so much of it as to imprint any remarka¬ 
ble character of figured language on our style; such as these phrases, 
( apprehend one’s meaning:’ ; enter on a subject:’ ‘follow out an argu¬ 
ment:’ 4 stir up strife :’and a great many more, of which our language 
is full. In the use of such phrases, correct writers will always preserve 
a regard to the figure or allusion on which they are founded, and will 
be careful not to apply them in any way that is inconsistent with it. 
One may be 6 sheltered under the patronage of a great manbut it were 
wrong to say, ‘sheltered under the mask of dissimulation,’as a mask 
conceals, but does not shelter. An object, in description, may be 
‘clothed,’if you will, ‘with epithets;’ but it is not so proper to speak 
of its being ‘ clothed with circumstances:’ as the word ‘ circumstances’ 
alludes to standing round, not to clothing. Such attentions as these 
to the propriety of language are requisite in every composition. 

What has been said on this subject, tends to throw light on the na¬ 
ture of language in general, and will lead to the reasons, why tropes 
or figures contribute to the beauty and grace of style. 

First, They enrich language, and render it more copious. By 
their means, words and phrases are multiplied for expressing all 
sorts of ideas; for describing even the minutest differences; the 
nicest shades and colours of thought; which no language could pos¬ 
sibly do by proper words alone, without assistance from tropes. 

Secondly, They bestow dignity upon style. The familiarity of 
common words, to which our ears are much accustomed, tends to 
degrade style. When we want to adapt our language to the tone of 
an elevated subject, we should be greatly at a loss, if we could not 
borrow assistance from figures; which, properly employed, have a 
similar effect on language, with what is produced by the rich and 
splendid dress of a person of rank; to create respect, and to give 
an air of magnificence to him who wears it. Assistance of this 
kind, is often needed in prose compositions; but poetry could not 
subsist without it. Hence figures form the constant language of po¬ 
etry. To say, that ‘ the sun rises,’ itftrite and common; but it becomes 
a magnificent image when expressed, as Mr. Thomson has done: 

But yonder comes the powerful king of day, 

Rejoicing in the east.— 

To say that ‘all men are subject alike to death,’ presents only a vul¬ 
gar idea; but it rises and fills the imagination, when painted thus by 
Horace: 

Pallida mors eequo pulsat pede, pauperum tabernas 
Regumque turres.* 

Or, 

Omnes eodem cogimur; omnium 
Versatur urna, serius ocyus, 

Sors exitura, et nos in eternum 
Exilium impostura cymbae. 

* With equal pace, impartial fate 

Knocks at the palace, as the cottage gate. 

20 


X 




154 


ORIGIN AND NATURE OP [lect. xiv. 


In the third place, figures give us the pleasure of enjoying two 
objects presented together to our view, without confusion; the prin¬ 
cipal idea, which is the subject of the discourse, along with its ac¬ 
cessory, which gives it the figurative dress. We see one thing in 
another, as Aristotle expresses it; which is always agreeable to the 
mind. For there is nothing with which the fancy is more delighted, 
than with comparisons, and resemblances of objects ; and all tropes 
are founded upon some relation or analogy between one thing and 
another. When, for instance, in place of ‘youth,’ I say the 
< morning of life;’ the fancy is immediately entertained with all 
the resembling circumstances which presently occur between these 
two objects. At one moment, 1 have in my eye a certain period of 
human life, and a certain time of the day, so related to each other, 
that the imagination plays between them with pleasure, and contem¬ 
plates two similar objects, in one view, without embarrassment or 
confusion. Not only so, but, 

In the fourth place, figures are attended with this farther advan¬ 
tage, of giving us frequently a much clearer and more striking view 
of the principal object, than we could have of it were it expressed 
in simple terms, and divested of its accessory idea. This is, indeed, 
their principal advantage, in virtue of which, they are very properly 
said to illustrate a subject, or to throw a light upon it. For they ex¬ 
hibit the object, on which they are employed, in a picturesque form; 
they can render an abstract conception, in some degree, an object 
of sense; they surround it with such circumstances, as enable the 
mind to lay hold of it steadily, and to contemplate it fully. £ Those 
persons,’ says one, 4 who gain the hearts of most people, who are 
chosen as the companions of their softer hours, and their reliefs from 
anxiety and care, are seldom persons of shining qualities, or strong 
virtues: it is rather the soft green of the soul, on which we rest 
our eyes, that are fatigued with beholding more glaring objects.’ 
Here, by a happy allusion to a colour, the whole conception is con¬ 
veyed clear and strong to the mind in one word. By a well 
chosen figure, even conviction is assisted, and the impression of a 
truth upon the mind made more lively and forcible than it would 
otherwise be. As in the following illustration of Dr. Young’s: 

‘ When we dip too deep in pleasure, we always stir a sediment that 
renders it impure and noxious;’ or in this, 4 A heart boiling with vio¬ 
lent passions, will always send up infatuating fumes to the head.’ An 
image that presents so much congruity between a moral and a sen¬ 
sible idea, serveslike an argument from analogy, to enforce what the 
other asserts, and to induce belief. 

Besides, whether w T e are endeavouring to raise sentiments of plea¬ 
sure or aversion, we can always heighten the emotion by the figures 
which we introduce; leading the imagination to a train, either of 


Or, 

We all must tread the paths of fate; 

And ever shakes the mortal urn ; 

Whose lot embarks us, soon or late, 

On Charon’s boat; ah! never to retoirn. 


Francis* 



XECT. XIV.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 


155 


agreeable or disagreeable, of exalting or debasing ideas, correspon¬ 
dent to the impression which we seek to make. When we want to 
render an object beautiful, or magnificent, we borrow images from 
all the most beautiful or splendid scenes of nature; we thereby na¬ 
turally throw a lustre over our object; we enliven the reader’s mind, 
and dispose him to go along with us, in the gay and pleasing impres¬ 
sions which we give him of the subject. This effect of figures is 
happily touched in the following lines of Dr. Akenside, and illustrat¬ 
ed by a very sublime figure : 

-Then th’ inexpressive strain 

Diffuses its enchantment. Fancy dreams 
Of sacred fountains and Elysian groves, 

And vales of bliss; the intellectual power, 

Bends from his awful throne, a wond’ring ear, 

And smiles.- Picas, of Imaginat. I. 124. 

What I have now explained, concerning the use and effects of 
figures, naturally leads us to reflect on the wonderful power of lan¬ 
guage ; and, indeed, we cannot reflect on it without the highest ad¬ 
miration. What a fine vehicle is it now become for all the concep¬ 
tions of the human mind; even for the most subtile and delicate 
workings of the imagination ! What a pliable and flexible instrument 
in the hand of one who can employ it skilfully; prepared to take 
every form which he chooses to give it! Not content with a simple 
communication of ideas and thoughts, it paints those ideas to the 
eye ; it gives colouring and relievo, even to the most abstract con¬ 
ceptions. In the figures which it uses, it sets mirrors before us, where 
we may behold objects, a second time, in their likeness. It enter¬ 
tains us, as with a succession of the most splendid pictures; disposes 
in the most artificial manner, of the light and shade, for viewing eve¬ 
ry thing to the best advantage: in fine, from being a rude and im¬ 
perfect interpreter of men’s wants and necessities, it has now passed 
into an instrument of the most delicate and refined luxury. 

To make these effects of figurative language sensible, there are 
few authors in the English language to whom I can refer with more 
advantage than Mr. Addison, whose imagination is at once remark¬ 
ably rich, and remarkably correct and chaste. When he is treating, 
for instance, of the effect which light and colours have to entertain 
the fancy, considered in Mr. Locke’s view of them as secondary 
qualities, which have no real existence in matter, but are only ideas 
of the mind, with what beautiful painting has he adorned this philo¬ 
sophic speculation! ‘Things,’ says he, ‘ would make but a poor ap¬ 
pearance to the eye, if we saw them only in their proper figures and 
motions. Now, we are every where entertained with pleasing shows 
and apparitions; we discover imaginary glories in the heavens, and 
in the earth, and see some of this visionary beauty poured out upon 
the whole creation. But what a rough unsightly sketch of nature 
should we be entertained with, did all her colouring disappear, and 
the several distinctions of light and shade vanish ? In short, our souls 
are at present delightfully lost, and bewildered in a pleasing delu¬ 
sion : and we walk about like the enchanted hero of a romance, who 
sees beautiful castles, woods, and meadows: and at the same time 




156 


ORIGIN AND NATURE OF [lect. xi y. 


hears the warbling of birds, and the purling of streams; but, upon 
the finishing of some secret spell, the fantastic scene breaks up, and 
the disconsolate knight finds himself on a barren heath, or in a soli¬ 
tary desert. It is not improbable, that something like this may be 
the state of the soul after its first separation, in respect of the images 
it will receive from matter.’ No. 413, Spectator. 

Having thus explained, at sufficient length, the origin, the nature, 
and the effects of tropes, I should proceed next to the several kinds 
and divisions of them. But, in treating of these, were I to follow 
the common tract of the scholastic writers on rhetoric, 1 should 
soon become tedious, and, I apprehend, useless at the same time. 
Their great business has been, with a most patient and frivolous in¬ 
dustry, to branch them out under a vast number of divisions, accord¬ 
ing to all the several modes in which a word may be carried from its 
literal meaning, into one that; is figurative, without doing any more; 
as if the mere knowledge of the names and classes of all the tropes 
that can be formed, could be of any advantage towards the proper, 
or graceful use of language. All that I purpose is, to give, in a few 
words, before finishing this lecture, a general view of the several 
sources whence the tropical meaning of words is derived: after 
which I shall, in subsequent lectures, descend to a more particular 
consideration of some of the most considerable figures of speech, 
and such as are in most frequent use; by treating of which, I shall 
give all the instruction I can, concerning the proper employment 
of figurative language, and point out the errors and abuses which are 
apt to be committed in this part of style. 

All tropes, as I before observed, are founded on the relation which 
one object bears to another; in virtue of which, the name of the 
one can be substituted instead of the name of the other, and by such 
a substitution, the vivacity of the idea is commonly meant to be in¬ 
creased. These relations, some more, some less intimate, may all 
give rise to tropes. One of the first and most obvious relations, is 
that between a cause and its effect. Hence,in figurative language, 
the cause is sometimes put for the effect. Thus, Mr. Addison, writ¬ 
ing of Italy: 

Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers, together rise, 

And the whole year in gay confusion lies. 

Where the ‘ whole year’ is plainly intended, to signify the effects or 
productions of all the seasons of the year. At other times, again, 
the effect is put for the cause; as/gray hairs’ frequently for old age, 
which causes gray hairs; and f shade,’ for trees that produce the 
shade. The relation between the container and the thing contain¬ 
ed, is also so intimate and obvious, as naturally to give rise to 
tropes: 

-Ille impiger hausit 

Spumantem pateram et pleno se proluit auro. 

Where every one sees, that the cup and the gold are put for the li¬ 
quor that was contained in the golden cup. In the same manner, the 
name of any country is often used to denote the inhabi tants of that 
country; and Heaven, very often employed to signify God, be* 



lect. xiv.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 


157 


cause he is conceived as dwelling in Heaven. To implore the assist¬ 
ance of Heaven, is the same as to implore the assistance of God. 
The relation betwixt any established sign and the thing signified, is a 
further source of tropes. Hence, 

Cedant arma to gee ; concedat laurea linguce. 

The ‘ toga,’ being the badge of the civil professions, and the ‘laurel* 
of military honours, the badge of each is put for the civil and mili¬ 
tary characters themselves. To ‘ assume the sceptre,* is a common 
phrase for entering on royal authority. To tropes, founded on these 
several relations, of cause and effect, container and contained, sign 
and thing signified, is given the name of Metonymy. 

When the trope is founded on the relation between an antecedent 
and a consequent, or what goes before, and immediately follows, it 
is then called a Metalepsis; as in the Roman phrase of‘Fuit,* or 
‘ Vixit,’ to express that one was dead. ‘Fuit Ilium et ingens gloria 
Dardauidum,* signifies, that the glory of Troy is now no more. 

When the whole is put for a part, or a part for the whole; a ge¬ 
nus for a species, or a species for a genus ; the singular for the plu¬ 
ral, or the plural for the singular number; in general, when any thing 
less, or any thing more, is put for the precise object meant; the 
figure is then called a Synecdoche. It is very common, for instance, 
to describe a whole object by some remarkable part of it; as when 
we say, ‘a fleet of so many sail,’ in the place of‘ships;* when we 
use the ‘ head’ for the ‘ person,* the ‘ pole* for the ‘ earth,* the ‘ waves* 
for the ‘ sea.’ In like manner, an attribute may be put for a subject; 
as, ‘youth and beauty,* for ‘the young and beautiful;’ and some¬ 
times a subject for its attribute. But it is needless to insist longer on 
this enumeration, which serves little purpose. I have said enough, 
to give an opening into that great variety of relations between ob¬ 
jects, by means of which, the mind is assisted to pass easily from one 
to another; and understands, by the name of the one, the other to 
be meant. It is always some accessory idea, which recalls the prin¬ 
cipal to the imagination; and commonly recalls it with more force, 
than if the principal idea had been expressed. 

The relation which is far the most fruitful of tropes I have not yet- 
mentioned ; that is, the relation of similitude and resemblance. On 
this is founded what is called the metaphor; when, in place of using 
the proper name of any object, we employ, in its place, the name ot 
some other which is like it; which is a sort of picture of it, and 
which thereby awakens the conception of it with more force or 
grace. This figure is more frequent than all the rest put together; 
and the language, both of prose and verse, owes to it much of its 
elegance and grace. This, therefore, deserves very full and par¬ 
ticular consideration; and shall be the subject of the next lecture. 


( 158 ) 


LECTURE XV. 



METAPHOR. 

After the preliminary observations I have made, relating to 
figurative language in general, I come now to treat separately of 
such figures of speech, as occur most frequently, and require par¬ 
ticular attention; and I begin with metaphor. This is a figure foun¬ 
ded entirely on the resemblance which one object bears to another. 
Hence, it is much allied to simile, or comparison, and is in¬ 
deed no other than a comparison expressed in an abridged 
form. When I say of some great minister, 6 that he upholds 
the state, like a pillar which supports the weight of a whole 
edifice/ I fairly make a comparison; but when I say of such a 
minister ‘ that he is the pillar of the state/ it is now become a 
metaphor. The comparison betwixt the minister and a pillar, is 
made in the mind; but is expressed without any of the words that 
denote comparison. The comparison is only insinuated, not ex¬ 
pressed : the one object is supposed to be so like the other, that, 
without formally drawing the comparison, the name of the one 
may be put in the place of the name of the other. ‘ The minister 
is the pillar of the state. 5 This, therefore, is a more livety and 
animated manner of expressing the resemblances which imagination 
traces among objects. There is nothing which delights the fancy 
more, than this act of comparing things together, discovering re¬ 
semblances between them, and describing them by their likeness. 
The mind thus employed, is exercised without being fatigued; and 
is gratified with the consciousness of its own ingenuity. We need 
not be surprised, therefore, at finding all language tinctured strongly 
with metaphor. It insinuates itself even into familiar conversation; 
and unsought, rises up of its own accord in the mind. The very 
words which I have casually employed in describing this, area proof 
of what I say; tinctured , insinuates , rises up , are all of them meta¬ 
phorical expressions, borrowed from some resemblance which fancy 
forms between sensible objects, and the internal operations of the 
mind; and yet the terms are no less clear, and perhaps, more ex¬ 
pressive, than if words had been used which were to be taken in 
the strict and literal sense. 

Though all metaphor imports comparison, and therefore is, in 
that respect, a figure of thought; yet, as the words in a metaphor 
are not taken literally, but changed from their proper to a figurative 
sense, the metaphor is commonly ranked among tropes or figures of 
words. But provided the nature of it be well understood, it signi¬ 
fies very little whether we call it a figure or a trope. I have confined 
it to the expression of resemblance between two objects. I must 
remark, however, that the word metaphor is sometimes used in a 
looser and more extended sense; for the application of a term in 
any figurative signification, whether the figure be founded on resem- 


X.ECT. XV.] 


METAPHOR. 


159 


blance, or on some other relation, which two objects bear to one 
another. For instance; when gray hairs are pat for old age; as, 
£ to bring one’s gray hairs with sorrow to the grave;’ some writers 
would call this a metaphor, though it is not properly one, but what 
rhetoricians call a metonymy; that is, the effect put for the cause; 
6 gray hairs’ being the effect of old age, but not bearing any sort of 
resemblance to it. Aristotle, in his Poetics, uses metaphor in this 
extended sense, for any figurative meaning imposed upon a word; 
as a whole put for the part, or a part for the whole; a species for 
the genus, or a genus for the species. But it would be unjust to 
tax this most acute writer with any inaccuracy on this account; the 
minute subdivisions, and various names of tropes, being unknown in 
his days, and the invention of later rhetoricians. Now, however, 
when these divisions are established, it is inaccurate to call every 
figurative use of terms, promiscuously, a metaphor. 

Of all the figures of speech, none comes so near to painting as 
metaphor. Its peculiar effect is to give light and strength to de¬ 
scription; to make intellectual ideas, in some sort, visible to the 
eye, by giving them colour, and substance, and sensible quali¬ 
ties. In order to produce this effect, however, a delicate hand 
is required: for, by a very little inaccuracy, we are in hazard 
of introducing confusion, in place of promoting perspicuity. Se¬ 
veral rules, therefore, are necessary to be given for the proper 
management of metaphors But before entering on these, I shall 
give one instance of a very beautiful metaphor, that I may show 
the figure to full advantage. I shall take my instance from Lord 
Bolingbroke’s remarks on the History of England. Just at the con¬ 
clusion of his work, he is speaking of the behaviour of Charles I. 
to his last parliament; ‘ In a word,’ says he, ‘about a month after 
their meeting, he dissolved them; and, as soon as he had dissolved 
them, he repented; but he repented too late of his rashness. YVell 
might he repent; for the vessel was now full, and this last drop 
made the waters of bitterness overflow.’ ‘Here,’ he adds, ‘we 
draw the curtain, and put an end to our remarks.’ Nothing could 
be more happily thrown off. The metaphor, we see, is continued 
through several expressions. The vessel is put for the state, or tem¬ 
per of the nation, already full, that is, provoked to the highest by 
former oppressions and wrongs; this last drop , stands for the pro¬ 
vocation recently received by the abrupt dissolution of the parlia¬ 
ment ; and the overflowing of the waters of bitterness , beautifully 
expresses all the effects of resentment, let loose by an exasperated 
people. 

On this passage, we may make two remarks in passing. The 
one, that nothing forms a more spirited and dignified conclusion of 
a subject, than a figure of this kind happily placed at the close. 
We see the effect of it, in this instance. The author goes off with 
a good grace; and leaves a strong and full impression of his subject 
on the reader’s mind. My other remark is, the advantage which 
a metaphor frequently has above a formal comparison. How much 
would the sentiment here have been enfeebled, if it had been ex- 
2 A 


METAPHOR. 


[lect. XV, 


160 

pressed in the style of a regular simile, thus: ‘Well might he re¬ 
pent; for the state of the nation, loaded with grievances and pro¬ 
vocations, resembled a vessel that was now full, and this superadded 
provocation, like the last drop infused, made their rage and resent¬ 
ment, as waters of bitterness, overflow.’ It has infinitely more 
spirit and force as it now stands, in the form of a metaphor. 6 Well 
might he repent: for the vessel was now full; and this last drop 
made the waters of bitterness overflow.’ 

Having mentioned, with applause, this instance from Lord Boling- 
broke, I think it incumbent on me here to take notice, that, though 
I may have recourse to this author, sometimes, for examples of style, 
it is his style only, and not his sentiments, that deserve praise. It is 
indeed my opinion, that there are few writings in the English lan¬ 
guage, which, for the matter contained in them, can be read with less 
profit of fruit, than Lord Bolingbroke’s works. His political writ¬ 
ings have the merit of a very lively and eloquent style ; but they have 
no other; being,as to the substance,the mere temporary productions 
of faction and party; no better, indeed, than pamphlets written for 
the day. His posthumous, or as they are called, his philosophi¬ 
cal works, wherein he attacks religion, have still less merit; for they 
are as loose in the style as they are flimsy in the reasoning. An un¬ 
happy instance, this author is, of parts and genius so miserably per¬ 
verted by faction and passion, that, as his memory will descend 
to posterity with little honour, so his productions will soon pass, and 
are, indeed, already passing into neglect and oblivion. 

Returning from this digression to the subject before us, I proceed 
to lay down the rules to be observed in the conduct of metaphors; 
and which are much the same for tropes of every kind. * 

The first which I shall mention, is, that they be suited to the nature 
of the subject of which we treat; neither too many, nor too gay, nor 
too elevated for it; that we neither attempt to force the subject, by 
means of them, into a degree of elevation which is not congruous to 
it; nor, on the other hand, allow it to sink below its proper dignity. 
This is a direction which belongs to all figurative language, and should 
be ever kept in view. Some metaphors are allowable, nay, beautiful, 
in poetry, which it would be absurd and unnatural to employ in prose; 
some may be graceful in orations, which would be very improper in 
historical or philosophical composition. We must remember, that 
figures are the dress of our sentiments. As there is a natural con- 
gruity between dress, and the character or rank of the person who 
wears it, a violation of which congruity never fails to hurt; the same 
holds precisely as to the application of figures to sentiment. The 
excessive, or unseasonable employment of them, is mere foppery in 
writing. It gives a boyish air to composition; and instead of raising 
a subject, in fact, diminishes its dignity. For, as in life, true digni¬ 
ty must be founded on character, not on dress and appearance, so 
the dignity of composition must arise from sentiment and thought, 
not from ornament. The affectation and parade of ornament, de¬ 
tract as much from an author, as they do from a man. Figures and 
metaphors, therefore, should on no occasion be stuck on too pro- 


I£CT\ XV.] 


METAPHOR. 


161 


fusely; and never should be such as refuse to accord with the 
strain of our sentiment. Nothing can be more unnatural, than for 
a writer to carry on a train of reasoning, in the same sort of figura¬ 
tive language, which he would use in description. When he reasons, 
we look only for perspicuity ; when he describes, we expect embel¬ 
lishment; when he divides, or relates, we desire plainness and sim¬ 
plicity. One of the greatest secrets in composition is, to know 
when to be simple. This always gives a heightening to ornament, 
in its proper place. The right disposition of the shade, makes the 
light and colouring strike the more: Ms enim est eloquens,’ says 
Cicero, 4 qui et humilia subtiliter, et magna graviter, et mediecria 
temperate potest dicere. Nam qui nihil potesttranquille, nihil leni- 
ter, nihil definite, distincte, potest dicere, is,cum non praeparatis au- 
ribus inflammare rem coepit, furere apud sanos, et quasi inter sobri- 
os bacchari temulentus videtur.’* This admonition should be par¬ 
ticularly attended to by young practitioners in the art of writing, 
who are apt to be carried away by an undistinguishing admiration 
of what is showy and florid, whether in its place or not.t 

The second rule which I give, respects the choice of objects, 
from whence metaphors, and other figures, are to be drawn. The 
field for figurative language is very wide. All nature, to speak in 
the style of figures, opens its stores to us, and admits us to gather, 
from all sensible objects, whatever can illustrate intellectual or moral 
ideas. Not only the gay and splendid objects of sense, butthegrave, 
the terrifying, and even the gloomy and dismal, may, on different oc¬ 
casions, be introduced into figures with propriety. But we must be¬ 
ware of ever using such allusions as raise in the mind disagreeable, 
mean, vulgar, or dirty ideas. Even when metaphors are chosen in 
order to vilify and degrade any object, an author should study never 
to be nauseous in his allusions. Cicero blames an orator of his time, 
for terming his enemy ‘Stercus Curiae;’ ‘ quamvis sit simile,’ says 
he, ‘ tamen est deformis cogitatio similitudinis.’ But, in subjects of 
dignity, it is an unpardonable fault to introduce mean and vulgar me¬ 
taphors. In the treatise on the Art of Sinking, in Dean Swift’s works, 
there is a full and humorous collection of instances of this kind, 


* “ He is truly eloquent, who can discourse of humble subjects in a plain style, who 
can treat important ones with dignity, and speak of things which are of a middle na¬ 
ture, in a temperate strain. For one who, upon no occasion, can express himself in a 
calm, orderly, distinct manner, when he begins to be on fire before his readers are pre¬ 
pared to kindle along with him, has the appearance of raving like a madman among 
persons who are in their senses, or of reeling like a drunkard in the midst ofsober com¬ 
pany.” 

+ What person of the least taste, can bear the following passage, in a late historian ? 
He is giving an account of the famous act of parliament against irregular marriages in 
England: ‘ The bill,’ says he, ‘underwent a great number of alterations and amendments, 
which were not effected without violent contest.’ This is plain language, suited to the 
subject; and we naturally expect, that he should go on in the same strain, to tell us, that, 
after these contests, it was carried by a great majority of voices, and obtained the royal as¬ 
sent. But how does he express himself in finishing the period P ‘ At length, however, it 
was floated through both houses,* «n the tide of a great majority, and steered into the 
safe harbour of royal approbation.’ Nothing can be more puerile than such language. 
Smollet’s History of England, as quoted in Critical Review for Oct. 1761, p. 251. 

21 




162 


METAPHOR. 


fLECT. XV- 


wherein authors, instead of exalting, have contrived to degrade, 
their subjects by the figures they employed. Authors of greater 
note than those which are there quoted, have, at times, fallen into 
this error. Archbishop Tillotson, for instance, is sometimes negli¬ 
gent in his choice of metaphors; as, when speaking of the day of 
judgment, he describes the world, as 4 cracking about the sinners’ 
ears.’ Shakspeare, whose imagination was rich and bold, in a much 
greater degree than it was delicate, often fails here. The following, 
for example, is a gross transgression; in his Henry V. having men¬ 
tioned a dunghill, he presently raises a metaphor from the steam 
of it; and on a subject too, that naturally led to much nobler ideas: 

And those that leave their valiant bones in France, 

Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills, 

They shall be fam’d ; for there the sun shall greet them, 

And draw their honours reeking up to heaven. Act IV. Sc. 8. 

In the third place, as metaphors should be drawn from objects of 
some dignity, so particular care should be taken that the resemblance, 
which is the foundation of the metaphor, be clearand perspicuous, not 
far fetched nor difficult to discover. The transgression of this rule 
makes what are called harsh or forced metaphors, which are always 
displeasing, because they puzzle the reader, and, instead of illustrat- 
ingthethought, render it perplexed and intricate. With metaphors of 
this kind, Cowley abounds. He, and some of the writers ofhis age, seem 
to have considered it as the perfection of wit, to hit upon likenesses 
between objects which no other person could have discovered; and, 
at the same time, to pursue those metaphors so far, that it requires 
some ingenuity to follow them out and comprehend them. This 
makes a metaphor resemble an aenigma ; and is the very reverse of 
Cicero’s rule on this head: ‘Verecunda debet esse translatio; ut 
deducta esse in alienum locum non irruisse, atque ut voluntario non 
vi venisse videatur.’* How forced and obscure, for instance, are the 
following verses of Cowley, speaking of his mistress: 

Wo to her stubborn heart, if once mine come 
Into the self-same room, 

’Twill tear and blow up all w ithin, 

Like a granado, shot into a magazine. 

Then shall love keep the ashes and torn parts 
Of both our broken hearts; 

Shall out of both one new one make; 

From hers th’ alloy, from mine the metal take; 

For of her heart, he from the flames will find 
But little left behind; 

Mine only will remain entire, 

No dross was there to perish in the fire. 

In this manner he addresses sleep: 

In vain thou drowsy god, I thee invoke; 

For thou, who dost from fumes arise, 

Thou, who man’s soul dost overshade, 

* “ Every metaphor should be modest, so that it may carry the appearance of having 

been led, not of having forced itself into the place of that word whose room it occu¬ 
pies ; that it may seem to have come thither of its own accord, and not by con¬ 
straint.” De Oratore, L. iii. c. S3* 



EfECT. XV.] 


METAPHOR. 


163 


With a thick cloud by vapours made ; 

Canst have no power to shut his eyes, 

Whose flame’s so pure that it sends up no smoke; 

Yet how do tears but from some vapours rise! 

Tears that be winter all my year; 

The fate of Egypt I sustain, 

And never feel the dew of rain, 

From clouds which in the head appear; 

But all my too much moisture owe 
To overflowings of the heart below.* * 

Trite and common resemblances should indeed be avoided in our 
metaphors. To be new, and not vulgar, is a beauty. But when 
they are fetched from some likeness too remote, and lying too far 
out of the road of ordinary thought, then, besides their obscurity, 
they have also the disadvantage of appearing laboured, and, as the 
French call it, ; recherchewhereas metaphor, like every other orna¬ 
ment, loses its whole grace, when it does not seem natural and easy. 

It is but a bad and ungraceful softening which writers sometimes 
use for a harsh metaphor, when they palliate it with the expression, 
as it were. This is but an awkward parenthesis ; and metaphors, 
which need this apology of an as it were , would, generally, have 
been better omitted. Metaphors, too, borrowed from any of the 
sciences, especially such of them as belonged to particular profes¬ 
sions, are almost always faulty by their obscurity. 

In the fourth place, it must be carefully attended to, in the con¬ 
duct of metaphors, never to jumble metaphorical and plain lan¬ 
guage together; never to construct a period so, that part of it must 
be understood metaphorically, part literally; which always produces 
a most disagreeable confusion. Instances which are but too fre¬ 
quent, even in good authors, will make this rule and the reason of 
it, be clearly understood In Mr. Pope’s translation of the Odys¬ 
sey, Penelope, bewailing the abrupt departure of her son Tele- 
machus, is made to speak thus : 

Long to my joys my dearest lord is lost, 

His country’s buckler, and the Grecian boast; 

Now from my fond embrace by tempests torn, 

Our other column of the state is borne, 

Nor took a kind adieu, nor sought consent.f IV. 962. 

Here, in one line, her son is figured as a column; and in the 
next he returns to be a person, to whom it belongs to take 
adieu, and to ask consent. This is inconsistent. The poet should 
either have kept himsfelf to the idea of mm in the literal sense; 
or, if he figured him bv a column, he should have ascribed no¬ 
thing to him, but what belonged to it. He was not at liberty to as- 

* See an excellent criticism on this sort of metaphysical poetry, in Dr. Johnson’s 
Life of Cowley. 

| In the original, there is no allusion to a column, and the Metaphor is regularly 
supported. 

*H <8rg<v utv <aro<riv iT&xov d-ts/ttoktovrct 

riatVT9/Jjc d^irniTi KiKZrfXivav ’ey Aatv* e l<ri 
ErS’Xov, t« Khto; eogv jtstQ* *Exx*J* k.m fxerov 'Agyoe 
J *v -oratlJ’ nvn^u^avJo d’utwat 

*Akma sk (My KtP b£fAn9evl<3( * itxrct. A. 734. 




164 


METAPHOR. 


[lect. xr. 


cribe to that column the actions and properties of a man. Such un¬ 
natural mixtures render the image indistinct: leaving it to waver, 
in our conception, between the figurative and the literal sense. 
Horace’s rule, which he applies to characters, should be observed by 
all writers who deal in figures: 

-Servetur ad imum, 

Quails ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet, 

Mr. Pope, elsewhere, addressing himself to the king, says, 

To thee the world its present homage pays, 

The harvest early, but mature the praise. 

This, though not so gross, is a fault, however, of the same kind. 
It is plain that, had not the rhyme misled him to the choice of an 
improper phrase, he would have said, 

The harvest early, but mature the crop; 

And so would have continued the figure which he had begun. 
Whereas, by dropping it unfinished, and by employing the literal 
word praise, when we were expecting something that related to the 
harvest, the figure is broken, and the two members of the sentence 
have no proper correspondence with each other: 

The harvest early, but mature the praise. 

The works of Ossian abound with beautiful and correct meta¬ 
phors; such as that on a hero: ‘In peace, thou art the gale of 
spring; in war,the mountain storm.’ Or this, on a woman: ‘She 
was covered with the light of beauty; but her heart was the house 
of pride.’ They afford, however, one instance of the fault we are 
now censuring: ‘Trothal went forth with the stream of his people, 
but they met a rock: for Fingal stood unmoved; broken, they roll¬ 
ed back from his side. Nor did they roll in safety; the spear of the 
king pursued their flight.’ At the beginning, the metaphor is very 
beautiful. The stream, the unmoved rock, the waves rolling back 
broken, are expressions employed in the proper and consistent 
language of figure; but, in the end, when we are told, ‘they 
did not roll in safety, because the spear of the king pursued 
their flight,’ the literal meaning is improperly mixed with the 
metaphor: they are, at one and the same time, presented to us 
as loaves that roll, and men that may be pursued and wounded with 
a spear. If it be faulty to jumble together, in this manner, meta¬ 
phorical and plain language, it is still more so, 

In the fifth place, to make two different metaphors meet on one 
object. This is what is called mixed metaphor, and is indeed one 
of the grossest abuses of this figure; such as Shakspeare’s expres¬ 
sion, ‘ to take arms against a sea of troubles.’ This makes a most 
unnatural medley, and confounds the imagination entirely. Quin¬ 
tilian has sufficiently guarded us against it. ‘ Id imprimis est cus- 
todiendum, ut quo genere coeperis translationis, hoc finias. Multi 
autem cum initium a tempestate sumserunt, incendio aut ruina fini- 
unt; quae est inconsequentia rerum foedissima.’* Observe, for in- 

* “ We must be particularly attentive to end with the same kind of metaphor with 
which we have begun. Some, when they begin the figure with a tempest, conclude it 
with a conflagration; which forms a shameful inconsistency. 





X.ECT. XV.] 


METAPHOR. 


165 


stance, what an inconsistent group of objects is brought together by 
Shakspeare, in the following passage of the Tempest; speaking of 
persons recovering their judgment,after the enchantment which held 
them was dissolved: 

-The charm dissolves apace, 

And as the morning steals upon the night, 

Melting the darkness, so their rising senses 
Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle 
Their clearer reason.- 

So many ill sorted things are here joined, that the mind can see 
nothing clearly; the morning stealing upon the darkness, and at 
the same time melting it; the senses of men chasing fumes , igno¬ 
rant fumes , and fumes that mantle . So again in Romeo and 
Juliet: 

-As glorious, 

As is the winged messenger from heaven, 

Unto the white upturned wondering eyes 
Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him, 

When he bestrides the lazy pacing clouds, 

And sails upon the bosom of the air. 

Here the angel is represented, as at one moment, bestriding the 
clouds, and sailing upon the air; and upon the bosom of the air 
too; which forms such a confused picture, that it is impossible for 
any imagination to comprehend it. 

More correct writers than Shakspeare, sometimes fall into this 
error of mixing metaphors. It is surprising how the following inac¬ 
curacy should have escaped Mr. Addison, in his Letter from Italy; 

I bridle in*my struggling muse with pain, 

That longs to launch into a bolder strain.* 

The muse, figured as a horse, may be bridled ; but when we speak 
of launching , we make it a ship ; and by no force of imagination, 
can it be supposed both a horse and a ship at one moment; bridled 
to hinder it from launching. The same author, in one of his num¬ 
bers in the Spectator, says, 6 There is not a single view of human 
nature, which is not sufficient to extinguish the seeds of pride.’ Ob¬ 
serve the incoherence of the things here joined together, making 
‘a view extinguish, and extinguish seeds.’ 

Horace, also, is incorrect, in the following passage: 

Urit enim fulgore suo qui prscgravat artes 
Infra se positas.- 

Urit qui prasgravat. He dazzles who bears down with his weight; 
makes plainly an inconsistent mixture of metaphorical ideas. 
Neither can this other passage be altogether vindicated: 

Ah ! quanta laboras in Charybdi, 

Digne puer meliore flammfi P 

Where a whirlpool of water, Charybdis, is said to be a flame not 
good enough for this young man; meaning, that he was unfortu¬ 
nate in the object of his passion. Flame is, indeed, become al- 

* In my observation on this passage, I find that I had coincided with Dr. Johnson, 
who passes a similar censure upon it, in his life of Addison. 







166 


METAPHOR. 


[lect. XV. 


most a literal word for the passion of love: but as itr still retains, in 
some degree, its figurative power, it should never have been used 
as synonymous with water, and mixed with it in the same metaphor* 
When Mr. Pope (Eloisa to Abelard) says, 

All then is full, possessing 1 and possest, 

No craving void left aking in the breast. 

A void may, metaphorically, be said to crave: but can a void be said 
to ake? 

A good rule has been given for examining the propriety of meta¬ 
phors, when we doubt whether or not they be of the mixed kind; 
namely, that we should try to form a picture upon them,and consi¬ 
der how the parts would agree, and what sort of figure the whole 
would present, when delineated with a pencil. By this means, we 
should become sensible, whether inconsistent circumstances were 
mixed, and a monstrous image thereby produced, as in all those 
faulty instances I have now been giving; or whether the object was, 
all along, presented in one natural and consistent point of view. 

As metaphors ought never to be mixed, so, in the sixth place, we 
should avoid crowding them together on the same object. Suppos¬ 
ing each of the metaphors to be preserved distinct, yet, if they be 
heaped on one another, they produce a confusion somewhat of the 
same kind with the mixed metaphor. We may judge of this by the 
following passage from Horace: 

Motum ex Metello consule civicura, 

Bellique causas, et vitia et modos, 

Ludumque fortunae, gravesque ** 

Principum amicitias, et arma 
Nondum expiatis uncta cruoribus ; 

Periculosee plenum opus aleae 
Tractas, et incedis per ignes 

Suppositos cineri doloso.* Lib. ii. 1. 

This passage, though very poetical, is, however, harsh and ob¬ 
scure; owing to no other cause but this, that three distinct meta¬ 
phors are crowded together, to describe the difficulty of Pollio’s 
writing a history of the civil wars. First , 4 Tractas arma uncta cru¬ 
oribus nondum expiatis;’ next, 4 opus plenum periculosae aleae;’ and 
then; 4 Incedis per ignes suppositos doloso cineri.’ The mind has 
difficulty in passing readily through so many different views, given it 
in quick succession, of the same object. 

The only other rule concerning metaphors which I shall add, in 


* Of warm commotions, wrathful jars, 

The growing seeds of civil wars ; 

Of double fortune’s cruel games, 

The spacious means, the private aims, 
And fatal friendships, of the guilty great, 
Alas! how fatal to the Roman state ! 

Of mighty legions late subdu’d, 

And arms with Latian blood embru’d; 
Yet unaton’d (a labour vast! 

Doubtful the die, and dire the cast!) 

You treat adventurous, and incautious tread 
On fires with faithless embers overspread. 


Fbakcis. 




LEdT. XV.] 


METAPHOR. 


167 


the seventh place, is, that they be not too far pursued. If the re¬ 
semblance, on which the figure is founded, be long dwelt upon, and 
carried into all its minute circumstances, we make an allegory in¬ 
stead of a metaphor; we tire the reader, who soon becomes weary 
of this play of fancy; and we render our discourse obscure. This 
is called straining a metaphor. Cowley deals in this to excess; and 
to this error is owing, in a great measure, that intricacy and harsh¬ 
ness, in his figurative language, which I before remarked. Lord 
Shaftesbury is sometimes guilty of pursuing his metaphors too far. 
Fond, to a high degree, of every decoration of style, when once he 
had hit upon a figure that pleased him, he was extremely loth to part 
with it. Thus, in his advice to an author, having taken up soliloquy 
or meditation, under the metaphor of a proper method of evacua¬ 
tion for an author, he pursues this metaphor through several pages, 
under all the forms 4 of discharging crudities, throwing off froth and 
scum, bodily operation, taking physic, curing indigestion, giving 
vent to choler, bile, flatulencies, and tumours;’ till,at last, the idea 
becomes nauseous. Dr. Young, also, often trespasses in the same 
way. The merit, however, of this writer, in figurative language, is 
great, and deserves to be remarked. No writer, ancient or modern, 
had a stronger imagination than Dr. Young, or one more fertile in 
figures of every kind. His metaphors are often new, and often na¬ 
tural and beautiful. But his imagination was strong and rich, 
rather than delicate and correct. Hence, in his Night Thoughts, 
there prevails an obscurity, and a hardness in his style. The meta¬ 
phors are frequently too bold, and frequently too far pursued; the 
reader is dazzled, rather than enlightened ; and kept constantly 
on the stretch to keep pace with the author. We may observe, for 
instance, how the following metaphor is spun out: 

Thy thoughts are vagabond ; all outward bound, 

Midst sands,and rocks, and storms, to cruise for pleasure; 

If gain’d, dear bought: and better miss’d than gain’d. 

Fancy and sense, from an infected shore, 

Thy cargo brings ; and pestilence the prize ; 

Then such the thirst, insatiable thirst, 

By fond indulgence but inflam’d the more, 

Fancy still cruises, when poor sense is tir’d. 

Speaking of old age, he says, it should 

Walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore 
Of that vast ocean, it must sail so soon ; 

And put good works on board ; and wait the wind 
That shortly blows us into worlds unknown. 

The two first lines are uncommonly beautiful; ‘ walk thoughtful 
on the silent,’ &c. but when he continues the metaphor, ‘to putting 
good worksonboard, and waitingthe wind,’ it plainly becomes strain¬ 
ed, and sinks in dignity. Of all the English authors, I know none 
so happy in his metaphors as Mr. Addison. His imagination was 
neither so rich nor so strong as Dr. Young’s; but far more chaste 
and delicate. Perspicuity, natural grace and ease, always distinguish 
his figures. They are neither harsh nor strained: they never appeal 
2 B 


ALLEGORY. 


166 


[lect. XV. 


to have been studied or sought after: but seem to rise of their own 
accord from the subject, and constantly embellish it. 

I have now treated fully of the metaphor, and the rules that should 
govern it, a part of style so important, that it required particular 
illustration. 1 have only to add a few words concerning allegory. 

An allegory may be regarded as a continued metaphor; as it is 
the representation of some one thing by another that resembles it, 
and that is made to stand for it. Thus, in Prior’s Henry and Em¬ 
ma, Emma, in the following allegorical manner, describes her con¬ 
stancy to Henry: 

Did I but purpose to embark with thee 
On the smooth surface of a summer’s sea, 

While gentle zephyrs play with prosperous gales, 

And fortune’s favour fills the swelling sails ; 

But would forsake the ship, and make the shore, 

When the winds whistle, and the tempests roar ? 

We may take also from the scriptures a very fine example of an 
allegory, in the 80th Psalm; where the people of Israel are repre¬ 
sented under the image of a vine, and the figure is supported through¬ 
out with great correctness and beauty ; 4 Thou hast brought a vine 
out of Egypt, thou hast cast out the heathen and planted it. Thou 
preparedst room before it, and didst cause it to take deep root, and 
it filled the land. The hills were covered with the shadow of it; 
and the boughs thereof were like the goodly cedars. She sent out 
her boughs into the sea, and her branches into the river. Why hast 
thou broken down her hedges, so that all they which pass by the way 
do pluck her! The boar out of the wood doth waste it; and the 
wild beast of the field doth devour it. Return, we beseech thee, 
0 God of Hosts, look down from heaven, and behold, and visit this 
vine!’ Here there is no circumstance, (except, perhaps, one phrase 
at the beginning, 4 thou hast cast out the heathen’) that does not 
strictly agree to a vine, whilst, at the same time, the whole quadrates 
happily with the Jewish state represented by this figure. This is the 
first and principal requisite in the conduct of an allegory, that the 
figurative and the literal meaning be not mixed inconsistently toge¬ 
ther. For instance, instead of describing the vine, as wasted by the 
boar from the wood, and devoured by the wild beast of the field, 
had the Psalmist said, it was afflicted by heathens, or overcome by 
enemies, (which is the real meaning) this would have ruined the al¬ 
legory, and produced the same confusion, of which I gave examples 
in metaphors, when the figurative and literal sense are mixed and 
jumbled together. Indeed, the same rules that were given for meta¬ 
phors, may also be applied to allegories, on account of the affinity 
they bear to each other. The only material difference between 
them, besides the one being short and the other being prolonged,is, 
that a metaphor always explains itself by the words that are connect¬ 
ed with it in their proper and natural meaning; as when I say 
‘Achilles was a lion;’ an 4 able minister is the pillar of the state.’ 
My lion and my pillar are sufficiently interpreted by the mention of 
Achilles and the minister, which I join to them: but an allegory is, 
or may be, allowed to stand more disconnected with the literal mean- 


lect. xv.] ALLEGORY. 169 

ing; the interpretation not so directly pointed out, but left to our 
own reflection. 

Allegories were a favourite method of delivering instructions in 
ancient times ; for what we call fables or parables, are no other than 
allegories ; where, by words and actions attributed to beasts or inani¬ 
mate objects, the dispositions of men are figured ; and what we call 
the moral, is the unfigured sense or meaning of the allegory. An 
aenigma, or riddle, is also a species of allegory ; one thing represent¬ 
ed or imagined by another ; but purposely wrapt up under so many 
circumstances, as to be rendered obscure. Where a riddle is not 
intended, it is always a fault in allegory to be too dark. The mean¬ 
ing should be easily seen through the figure employed to shadow it. 
However, the proper mixture of light and shade in such composi¬ 
tions, the exact adjustment of all the figurative circumstances with 
the literal sense, so as neither to lay the meaning too bare and open, 
nor to cover and wrap it up too much, has ever been found an af¬ 
fair of great nicety; and there are few species of composition in 
which it is more difficult to write so as to please and command atten¬ 
tion, than in allegories. In some of the visions of the Spectator, we 
have examples of allegories very happily executed. 

j 


QUESTIONS. 


After the preliminary observations 
made relating to figurative language 
in general, of what does our author 
come to treat? With which does he 
begin; and on what is it founded ? 
Hence, of it, what is observed ? How 
is this remark illustrated ? Of the com¬ 
parison betwixt the minister and a pil¬ 
lar, what is remarked ? This, therefore, 
is what; and how does it affect the fan¬ 
cy ? Of the mind, when thus employed, 
what is observed ? At what, therefore, 
need we not be surprised; and what 
remark follows ? How is this illustrated, 
from the words here casually employ¬ 
ed ? Why is the metaphor commonly 
ranked among tropes, or figures of 
thought ? But provided the nature of it 
be well understood, what matters but 
little; and to what has our author con¬ 
fined it ? In what sense, however, is 
the word metaphor sometimes used ? 
From what example is this illustrated; 
and of it, what is observed ? How does 
Aristotle, in his Poetics, use metaphor ? 
But to tax him with what, would be 
unjust; and why? Now, however, 
what, is .inaccurate? To what does 


metaphor more nearly approach than 
any other figure; and what is its pecu¬ 
liar effect ? In order to produce this ef¬ 
fect, what is required; and why? 
What, therefore, is necessary ? But be¬ 
fore entering on these, what does our 
author propose to do; and why ? 
Whence is the instance taken? Re¬ 
peat it. Of it, what is observed? On 
this passage, what two remarks are 
made? By what arrangement would 
the sentiment have been enfeebled? 
Having mentioned with applause this 
instance from Lord Bolingbroke, what 
does our author think it incumbent on 
him here to notice ? Of his writings, 
what is our author’s opinion? What 
merit have his political writings ? Of 
his philosophical works, what is ob¬ 
served ? Of what is this author an un¬ 
happy instance ? Returning from tjiis 
digression, to what does our author pro¬ 
ceed ? What is the first? Of this di¬ 
rection, what is observed ? How is this 
illustrated? What must we remember? 
What remark follows? Of the exces¬ 
sive employment of them, what is ob¬ 
served ? What air does it give to com- 







I t) 9 a 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect. XV, 


position; and how does this appear ? As 
the affectation a nd parade of ornament 
detract as much from an author as they 
do from a man, what follows ? What 
is most unnatural ? For what do we re¬ 
spectively look, when he reasons, when 
he describes, or when he relates ? What 
is one of the greatest secrets in compo¬ 
sition ? What does this give ? What is 
the effect of a right disposition of the 
shade ? What says Cicero on this sub¬ 
ject ? By whom should this admonition 
be attended to ? What does the second 
rule given, respect ? How extensive is 
the field of figurative language ? 
What objects may be introduced into 
figures with propriety? But of what 
must we beware; and even when ? In 
what subjects is it an unpardonable 
fault to introduce mean and vulgar 
metaphors? What do we find in the 
treatise on the Art of Sinking, in Dean 
Swift’s works ? Authors of what cha¬ 
racter, have fallen into this error? 
What instance is given ? Of Shaks- 
peare, what is here observed? What 
example is given from his Henry V. ? 
In the third place, about what should 
particular care be taken ? The trans¬ 
gression of this rule, makes what; and 
what is said of them ? Who abounds with 
metaphors of this land ? What did he, 
and some of the writers of his age, seem 
to consider the perfection of wit ? This 
makes a metaphor resemble what; 
and is the reverse of what rule ? Re¬ 
peat the following verses from Cowley, 
in which he is speaking of his mis¬ 
tress ; and also his address to sleep. 
What should be avoided in our meta¬ 
phors? What is a beauty? When 
have metaphors the disadvantage of 
appearing laboured; and when do 
they lose their whole grace ? What 
paliative do writers sometimes use for 
a harsh metaphor; and what is said of 
it? What metaphors are almost al¬ 
ways faulty by their obscurity ? 

In the fourth place, what must be 
carefully attended to? What does a 
violation of this direction always pro¬ 
duce ? What will make this mle, and 
the reason of it, clearly understood? 
What is the first one given ? Here, in 
one line, her son is made to appear like 
what; and what does he return to be 
in the next ? To what should the poet 
have kept himself? To do what was 
he not at liberty: and why? Of the 


rule which Horace applies to charac¬ 
ters, what is observed ? Repeat it; and 
also Mr. Pope’s lines addressed to the 
King? Of the latter, what is observed? 
What is said of the works of Ossian ? 
What examples are given ? What do 
they, however, afford ; and what is it ? 
Of the metaphor in this passage, what 
is observed ? If it be faulty to jumble 
together metaphorical and plain lan¬ 
guage, what, in the fifth place, is still 
more so ? What is this called; and 
what is said of it ? What instance is 
given? What does this make? What 
says Quintilian on this subject ? What 
example is given from Shakspeare’s 
Tempest; and of it, what is observed ? 
What one is given from Romeo and 
Juliet ? Here, how is the angel repre¬ 
sented ? What inaccuracy of the same 
kind is given from Mr. Addison; and 
what is observed of it ? What does the 
same author, in one of his numbers of 
the Spectator, say; and of it, what is 
observed ? In what passages is Horace 
also incorrect; and what is said of 
them ? What illustration of this rule is 
given from Mr. Pope ? What good mle 
has been given for examining the pro¬ 
priety of a metaphor ? By this means, 
of what should we become sensible ? 
As metaphors ought never to be mixed, 
so, in the sixth place, what should we 
avoid ? How may they produce a con¬ 
fusion of the same kind with the mix¬ 
ed metaphor ? By what passage from 
Horace may we judge of this? To 
what is the harshness and obscurity of 
this passage owing ? What are they ? 
In what does the mind here find diffi¬ 
culty? What is the only other rule 
which is to be given concerning meta¬ 
phors ? How shall we weary the fan¬ 
cy, and render our discourse obscure ? 
What is this called ? To what is this 
error in Cowley owing? Of Lord 
Shaftesbury, what is observed ? What, 
illustration is given? Of the merit of 
Dr. Young in figurative language, 
what is remarked ? Of his metaphors, 
and of his imagination, what is ob¬ 
served ? Hence, ir. his Night Thoughts, 
what prevails? What is said of the 
metaphors? In the following metaphor, 
what may we observe? Repeat it. 
Speaking of old age, what does he say; 
and what is remarked of this passage ? 
How does Mr. Addison, in metaphori¬ 
cal language, compare with other 






QUESTIONS. 


169 b 


LECT. XV.] 

English authors ? How does his imagi¬ 
nation compare with that of Dr. Young ? 
What always distinguish his figures ? 
Of what has our author now treated 
fully; and, as a part of style, what is 
observed of it ? How may an allegory 
be regarded ; and why? What exam¬ 
ple is given from Prior? What very 
fine example of this figure may we 
take from scripture? Here, what is 
not found ? What is the first and prin¬ 
cipal requisite in the conduct of an al¬ 
legory ? How is this illustrated ? What 
rules may be applied to allegories? 
What is the only material difference 
between them? What illustration is 
given ? How does it appear that alle¬ 
gories were a favourite method of de¬ 
livering instructions in ancient times ? 
What is an aenigma, or riddle ? Where 
a riddle is not intended, what follows ? 
What has ever been an affair of great 
nicety; and what is the consequence ? 
Where have we examples of allego¬ 
ries very happily executed ? 


ANALYSIS. 

1. Metaphor. 

a. The metaphor and the compari 

son contrasted. 

b. The peculiar properties of the 

metaphor. 

c. Rules for the conduct of metaphors. 

a. They should be suited to the 
subject. 

b. They should be drawn from ob¬ 
jects of dignity. 

c. The resemblance should be clear 
and perspicuous. 

d. Metaphorical and plain lan¬ 
guage should not be jumbled to¬ 
gether. 

e. Two metaphors should not 
meet on the same object. 

f They should not be crowded to¬ 
gether on the same object. 

g. They should not be too far pur¬ 
sued. 

2. Allegory. 

a. Its nature. 

B. Fables and mnigmas. 


LECTURE XVI. 


HYPERBOLE.—PERSONIFICATION.—APOSTROPHE. 

The next figure concerning which I am to treat, is called hyper¬ 
bole, or exaggeration. It consists in magnifying an object beyond 
its natural bounds. It may be considered sometimes as a trope, 
and sometimes as a figure of thought: and here, indeed, the distinc¬ 
tion between these two classes begins not to be clear, nor is it of 
any importance that we should have recourse to metaphysical sub- 
tilties, in order to keep them distinct. Whether we call it trope or 
figure, it is plain that it is a mode of speech which hath some foun¬ 
dation in nature. For in all languages, even in common conversation, 
hyperbolical expressions very frequently occur: as swift as the wind ; 
as white as the snow ; and the like : and our common forms of com¬ 
pliment are almost all of them extravagant hyperboles. If any 
thing be remarkably good or great in its kind, we are instantly ready 
to add to it some exaggerating epithet; and to make it the greatest 
or best we ever saw. The imagination has always a tendency to 
gratify itself, by magnifying its present object, and carrying it to 
excess. More or less of this hyperbolical turn will prevail in lan¬ 
guage, according to the liveliness of imagination among the people 
who speak it. Hence, young people deal always much in hyper¬ 
boles. Hence, the language of the orientals was far more hyperbo¬ 
lical than that of the Europeans, who are of more phlegmatic, or, if 
you please, of more correct imagination. Hence, among all wri- 





170 


HYPERBOLE. 


[LECT. XVX, 


ters in early times, and in the rude periods of society, we may ex¬ 
pect this figure to abound. Greater experience, and more cultivat¬ 
ed society, abate the warmth of imagination, and chasten the man¬ 
ner of expression. 

The exaggerated expressions to which our ears are accustomed 
in conversation, scarcely strike us as hyperboles. In an instant we 
make the proper abatement, and understand them according to 
their just value. But when there is something striking and unusual 
in the form of a hyperbolical expression, it then rises into a figure of 
speech which draws our attention: and here it is necessary to ob¬ 
serve, that, unless the reader’s imagination be in such a state as dis¬ 
poses it to rise and swell along with the hyperbolical expression, he 
is always hurt and offended by it. For a sort of disagreeable force 
is put upon him; he is required to strain and exert his fancy, when 
he feels no inclination to make any such effort. Hence the hyper¬ 
bole is a figure of difficult management; and ought neither to be 
frequently used, nor long dwelt upon. On some occasions, it is un¬ 
doubtedly proper; being, as was before observed, the natural style 
of a sprightly and heated imagination; but when hyperboles are un¬ 
seasonable, or too frequent* they render a composition frigid and 
unaffecting. They are the resource of an author of feeble imagina¬ 
tion; of one, describing objects which either want native dignity in 
themselves, or whose dignity he Cannot show by describing them 
simply, and in their just proportions, and is therefore obliged to 
rest upon tumid and exaggerated expressions. 

Hyperboles are of two kinds; either such as are employed in des¬ 
cription, or such as are suggested by the warmth of passion. The 
best by far, are those which are the effect of passion: for if the 
imagination has a tendency to magnify its objects beyond their na¬ 
tural proportion, passion possesses this tendency in a vastly stronger 
degree; and therefore not only excuses the most daring figures, but 
very often renders them natural and just. All passions, without ex¬ 
ception, love, terror, amazement, indignation, anger, and even grief, 
throw the mind into confusion, aggravate their objects, and of course, 
prompt a hyperbolical style. Hence the following sentiments of Sa¬ 
tan in Milton, as strongly as they are described, contain nothing 
but what is natural and proper; exhibiting the picture of a mind 
agitated with rage and despair. 

Me, miserable! which way shall I fly 

Infinite wrath, and infinite despair? 

Which way I fly is hell, myself am hell; 

And in the lowest depth, a lower deep 

Still threatening to devour me, opens wide, 

To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven. B. iv 1 73 

In simple description, though hyperboles are not excluded, yet 
they must be used with more caution, and require more prepara¬ 
tion, in order to make the mind relish them. Either the object 
described must be of that kind, which of itself seizes the fancy 
strongly, and disposes it to run beyond bounds; something vast, 
surprising, and new; or the writer’s art must be exerted in heating 
fancy gradually, and preparing it to think highly of the object 


1»E€T. XVI.] 


HYPERBOLE. 


171 


which he intends to exaggerate. When a poet is describing an 
earthquake or a storm, or when he has brought us into the midst of 
a battle, we can bear strong hyperboles without displeasure. But 
when he is describing only a woman in grief, it is impossible not to 
be disgusted with such wild exaggeration as the following, in one of 
our dramatic poets; 

-1 found her on the floor 

In all the storm of grief, yet beautiful; 

Pouring forth tears at such a lavish rate, 

That were the world on fire, they might have drown’d 

The wrath of Heaven, and quench’d the mighty ruin. Lee. 

This is mere bombast. The person herself who was under the 
distracting agitations of grief, might be permitted to hyperbolize 
strongly; but the spectator describing her, cannot be allowed an 
equal liberty; for this plain reason, that the one is supposed to ut¬ 
ter the sentiments of passion, the other speaks only the language of 
description, which is always, according to the dictates of nature, on 
a lower tone: a distinction, which, however obvious, has not been 
attended to by many writers. 

How far a hyperbole, supposing it properly introduced, may be 
safely carried without overstretching it; what is the proper measure 
and boundary of this figure, cannot, as far as I know, be ascertained 
by any precise rule. Good sense and just taste must determine the 
point, beyond which, if we pass, we become extravagant. Lucan 
may be pointed out as an author apt to be excessive in his hyperboles. 
Among the compliments paid by the Roman poets to their Empe¬ 
rors, it had become fashionable to ask them, what part of the hea¬ 
vens they would choose for their habitation, after they should have 
become gods ? Virgil had already carried this sufficiently far in his 
address to Augustus. 

-Tibi brachia contrahit ingens 

Scorpius, et Cceli just& plus parte relinquit. 1 ' 

But this did not suffice Lucan. Resolved to outdo all his predeces¬ 
sors, in a like address to Nero, he very gravely beseeches him not 
to choose his place near either of the poles, but to be sure to occupy 
just the middle of the heavens, lest, by going either to one side or 
the other, his weight should overset the universe: 

Sed neque in Arctoo sedem tibi legeris orbe, 

Nec polus adversi calidus qua mergitur Austri; 

AStheris immensi partem si presseris unam 
Sentiet axis onus. Librati pondera Coeli 

Orbe tene medio.f Phars. I. 53. 


* £ The Scorpion, ready to receive thy laws, 

Yields half his region, and contracts his paws.’ Dryden. 

+ ‘ But oh! whatever be thy Godhead great, 

Fix not in regions too remote thy seat; 

Nor deign thou near the frozen bear to shine, 

Nor where the sultry southern stars decline. 

Press not too much on any part the sphere, 

Hard were the task thy weight divine to bear ; 

Soon would the axis feel th’ unusual load, 

And, groaning, bend beneath th’ incumbent God; 

O’er the mid orb more equal shalt thou rise, 

And with a juster balance fix the skies Kowe. 





172 


PERSONIFICATION. 


[lect. xvj* 


Such thoughts as these, are what the French call on ires, and always 
proceed from a false fire of genius. The Spanish and African 
writers, as Tertullian, Cyprian, Augustin, are remarked for being fond 
of them. As in that Epitaph on Charles V. by a Spanish writer: 

Pro tumulo ponas orbem, pro tegniine cceliim, 

Sidera pro facibus, pro lacrymis maria. 

Sometimes they dazzle and impose by their boldness; but wherever 
reason and good sense are so much violated, there can be no true 
beauty. Epigrammatic writers are frequently guilty in this res¬ 
pect ; resting the whole merit of their epigrams on some extrava¬ 
gant hyperbolical turn; such as the following of Dr. Pitcairn’s, upon 
Holland’s being gained from the ocean; 

Tellurem fecere Dii; sua littora Belgae; 

Immensseque molis opus utrumque fuitj 

Dii vacuo sparsas glomerarunt aethere terras, 

Nil ibi quod operi possit obesse fuit. 

At Belgis maria et cceli, naturaque rerum 

Obstitit; obstanteshi domuere Deos. 

So much for the hyperbole. We proceed now to those figures which 
lie altogether in the thought; where the words are taken in their com¬ 
mon and literal sense. 

Among these, the first place is unquestionably due to personifi¬ 
cation, or that figure by which we attribute life and action to inan¬ 
imate objects. The technical term for this is Prosopopoeia; but as 
personification is of the same import, and more allied to our own 
language, it will be better to use this word. 

It is a figure, the use of which is very extensive, and its founda¬ 
tion is laid deep in human nature. At first view, and when considered 
abstractly, it would appear to be a figure of the utmost boldness, 
and to border on the extravagant and ridiculous. For what can 
seem more remote from the track of reasonable thought, than to 
speak of stones and trees, and fields and rivers, as if they were 
living creatures, and to attribute to them thought and sensation, 
affections and actions? One might imagine this to be no more than 
childish conceit, which no person of taste could relish. In fact 
however, the case is very different. No such ridiculous effect is 
produced by personification, when properly employed; on the 
contrary, it is found to be natural and agreeable, nor is any very 
uncommon degree of passion required, in order to make us relish 
it. All poetry, even in its most gentle and humble forms, abounds 
with it. From prose, it is far from being excluded; nay, in com¬ 
mon conversation, very frequent approaches are made to it. When 
we say, the ground thirsts for rain, or the earth smites with plenty; 
when we speak of ambition’s being restless, or a disease being dece.it- 
ful, such expressions show the facility with which the mine?can ac¬ 
commodate the properties of living creatures to things that are in¬ 
animate, or to abstract conceptions of its own forming. 

Indeed, it is very remarkable, that there is a wonderful proneness 
in human nature to animate all objects. Whether this arises from a 
sort of assimilating principle, from a propension to spread a resent 


eect. xvi.] 


PERSONIFICATION. 


173 


blance of ourselves oyer all other things, or from whatever other 
cause it arises, so it is, that almost every emotion, which in the 
least agitates the mind, bestows upon its object a momentary idea 
of life. Let a man by an unwary step, sprain his ankle, or hurt his 
foot upon a stone, and in the ruffled, discomposed moment, he will 
sometimes feel himself disposed to break the stone in pieces, or 
to utter passionate expressions against it, as if it had done him an 
injury. If one has been long accustomed to a certain set of objects 
which have made a strong impression on his imagination ; as to a 
house where he has passed many agreeable years; or to fields, and 
trees, and mountains,among which he has often walked with the 
greatest delight; when he is obliged to part with them, especially 
if he has no prospect of ever seeing them again, he can scarce avoid 
having somewhat of the same feeling as when he is leaving old 
friends. They seem endowed with life. They become objects of 
his affection ; and in the moment of his parting, it scarcely seems 
absurd to him, to give vent to his feeling in words, and to take a 
formal adieu. 

So strong is that impression of life, which is made upon us by 
the more magnificent and striking objects of nature especially, that 
I doubt not, in the least, of this having been one cause of the multi¬ 
plication of divinities in the heathen world. The belief of Dryads 
and Naiads, the genius of the wood, and the god of the river, among 
men oflively imaginations, in theearly ages of the world, easily arose 
from this turn of mind. When their favourite rural objects had 
often been animated in their fancy, it was an easy transition to at¬ 
tribute to them some real divinity, some unseen power or genius 
which inhabited them, or in some peculiar manner belonged to 
them. Imagination was highly gratified, by thus gaining some¬ 
what to rest upon with more stability ; and when belief coincided 
so much with imagination, very slight causes would be sufficient 
to establish it. 

From this deduction, may be easily seen how it comes to pass, 
that personification makes so great a figure in all compositions, 
where imagination or passion have any concern. On innumerable 
occasions, it is the very language of imagination and passion, and 
therefore, deserves to be attended to, and examined with peculiar 
care. There are three different degrees of this figure ; which it is 
necessary to remark and distinguish, in order to determine the pro¬ 
priety of its use. The first is, when some of the properties or 
qualities of living creatures are ascribed to inanimate objects; the 
second, when those inanimate objects are introduced as acting like 
such as have life ; and the third, when they are represented either 
as speaking to us, or as listening to what we say to them. 

The first and lowest degree of this figure, consists in ascribing 
to inanimate objects some of the qualities of living creatures. Where 
this is done, as is most commonly the case, in a word or two, and 
by way of an epithet added to the object, as, “a raging storm, a 
deceitful disease, a cruel disaster/’ &c. it raises the style so little, 
that the humblest discourse will admit it without any force. This. 

2 0 


174 


PERSONIFICATION. 


^LECT. XVX- 


indeed, is such an obscure degree of personification, that one may 
doubt whether it deserves the name, and might not be classed with 
simple metaphors, which escape in a manner unnoticed. Happily 
employed, however, it sometimes adds beauty and sprightliness to 
an expression ; as in this line of Virgil; 

Aut conjurato descendens Dacus ab Istro. Geor. II. 474. 

Where the personal epithet, conjurato, applied to the river Istro , is in¬ 
finitely more poetical than if it had been applied to the person, thus : 

Aut conjuratus descendens Dacus ab Istro. 

A very little taste will make any one feel the difference between 
these two lines. 

The next degree of this figure is, when we introduce inanimate 
objects acting like those that have life. Here we rise a step high¬ 
er, and the personification becomes sensible. According to the 
nature of the action, which we attribute to those inanimate objects, 
and the particularity with which we describe it, such is the strength 
of the figure. When pursued to any length, it belongs only to 
studied harangues, to highly figured and eloquent discourse ; when 
slightly touched, it may be admitted into subjects of less elevation. 
Cicero, for instance, speaking of the cases where killing another is 
lawful in self-defence, uses the following words : i Aliquando nobis 
gladius ad occidendutn hominem ad ipsis porrigitur legibus.’ (Orat. 
pro Milone ) The expression is happy. The laws are personified, 
as reaching forth their hand to give us a sword for putting one to 
death. Such short personifications as these may be admitted even 
into moral treatises, or works of cool reasoning; and provided they 
be easy and not strained, and that we be not cloyed with too fre¬ 
quent returns of them, they have a good effect on style, and render 
it both strong and lively. 

The genius of our language gives us an advantage in the use of 
this figure. As, with us, no substantive nouns have gender, or are 
masculine and feminine, except the proper names of male and fe¬ 
male creatures ; by giving a gender to any inanimate object, or ab¬ 
stract idea, that is, in place of the pronoun it, using the personal 
pronouns, he or she, we presently raise the style, and begin personi¬ 
fication. In solemn discourse, this may often be done to good pur¬ 
pose, when speaking of religion, or virtue, or our country, or any 
such object of dignity. I shall give a remarkably fine example, 
from a sermon of Bishop Sherlock’s, where we shall see natural re¬ 
ligion beautifully personified, and be able to judge from it, of the 
spirit and grace which this figure, when well conducted, bestows on 
a discourse. I must take notice, at the same time, that it is an in* 
stance of this figure, carried as far as prose, even in its highest ele¬ 
vation, will admit, and therefore suited only to compositions where 
the great efforts of eloquence are allowed. The author is compar¬ 
ing together our Saviour and Mahomet; ‘ Go,’ says he, ‘ to your na¬ 
tural religion: lay before her Mahomet, and his disciples, arrayed 
in armour and blood, riding in triumph over the spoils of thousands 
who fell bv his victorious sword. Show her the cities which he set 


LECT. XVI.] 


PERSONIFICATION. 


175 


in flames, the countries which he ravaged and destroyed, and the 
miserable distress of all the inhabitants of the earth. When she has 
viewed him in this scene, carry her into his retirement; show her the 
prophet’s chamber; his concubines and his wives; and let her hear 
him allege revelation, and a divine commission, to justify his adulte¬ 
ry and lust. When she is tired with this prospect, then show her the 
blessed Jesus, humble and meek, doing good to all the sons of men. 
Let her see him in his most retired privacies: let her follow him to 
the mount,and hear his devotions and supplications to God. Carry 
her to his table, to view his poor fare, and hear his heavenly discourse. 
Let her attend him to the tribunal, and consider the patience with 
which he endured the scoffs and reproaches of his enemies. Lead 
her to his cross ; let her view him in the agony of death, and hear 
his last prayer for his persecutors; Fat her, for give them, for they know 
not what they do / When natural religion has thus viewed both, ask 
her which is the Prophet of God ? But her answer we have already 
had, when she saw part of this scene, through the eyes of the cen¬ 
turion, who attended at the cross. By him she spoke, and said, 
Truly , this man was the Son of God .’* This is more than elegant; 
it is truly sublime. The whole passage is animated ; and the figure 
rises at the conclusion, when natural religion, who, before, was only 
a spectator, is introduced as speaking by the centurion’s voice. It 
has the better effect too, that it occurs at the conclusion of a dis¬ 
course, where we naturally look for most warmth and dignity. Did 
Bishop Sherlock’s sermons, or, indeed, any English sermons what¬ 
ever, afford us many passages equal to this, we should oftener have re¬ 
course to them for instances of the beauty of composition. 

Hitherto we have spoken of prose ; in poetry, personifications of 
this kind are extremely frequent, and are, indeed, the life and soul 
of it. We expect to find every thing animated in the descriptions of 
a poet who has a lively fancy. Accordingly, Homer, the father and 
prince of poets, is remarkable for the use of this figure. War, 
peace, darts, spears, towns, rivers, every thing, in short, is alive in his 
writings. The same is the case with Milton and Shakspeare. No 
personification, in any author, is more striking, or introduced on a 
more proper occasion, than the following of Milton’s, on occasion of 
Eve’s eating the forbidden fruit: 

So saying, her rash hand, in evil hour 

Forth reaching to the fruit, she pluck’d, she ate j 

Earth felt the wound ; and nature from her seat 

Sighing, through all her works, gave signs of wo 

That all was lost.— ix. 780. 

All the circumstances and ages of men, poverty, riches, youth, old 
age, all the dispositions and passions, melancholy, love, grief, con¬ 
tentment, are capable of being personified in poetry, with great pro¬ 
priety. Of this we meet with frequent examples in Milton’s Allegro 
and Penseroso, Parnell’s Hymn to Contentment, Thomson’s Seasons, 
and all the good poets: nor, indeed, is it easy to set any bounds to 
personifications of this kind, in poetry. 

* Bishop Sherlock’s Sermons, Vol. I. Disc, ix. 



PERSONIFICATION. 


[lect. xvj. 


176 

One of the greatest pleasures we receive from poetry, is, to find 
ourselves always in the midst of our fellows; and to see every thing 
thinking, feeling, and acting as we ourselves do. This is, perhaps, 
the principal charm of this sort of figured style, that it introduces 
us into society with all nature, and interests us, even in inanimate 
objects, by forming a connexion between them and us, through that 
sensibilitv which it ascribes to them. This is exemplified in the fol¬ 
lowing beautiful passage of Thomson’s Summer, wherein the life 
which he bestows upon all nature, when describing the effects 
of the rising sun, renders the scenery uncommonly gay and interest- 
ing: 

But yonder comes the powerful king of day 
Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud, 

The kindling azure, and the mountain’s brow, 

Tipt with sethereal gold, his near approach 

Betoken glad.-- 

-By thee refin’d, 

In brisker measures, the relucent stream 
Frisks o’er the mead. The precipice abrupt, 

Projecting horror on the blacken’d flood, 

Softens at thy return. The desert joys, 

Wildly, through all his melancholy bounds, 

Rude ruins glitter : and the briny deep, 

Seen from some pointed promontory’s top 
Reflects from every fluctuating wave, 

A glance extensive as the day- 

The same effect is remarkable in that fine passage of Milton : 

--To the nuptial bower 

I led her, blushing like the morn. All heaven 
And happy constellations, on that hour, 

Shed their selectest influence. The earth 
Grave signs of gratulations, and each hill. 

Joyous the birds ; fresh gales and gentle airs 
Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings 
Flung rose, flung odour from the spicy shrub, 

Disporting.- 

The third and highest degree of this figure remains to be mention¬ 
ed, when inanimate objects are introduced, not only as feeling and 
acting, but as speaking to us, or hearing and listening when we ad¬ 
dress ourselves to them. This, though on several occasions far from 
being unnatural, is, however, more difficult in the execution, than the 
other kinds of personification. For this is plainly the boldest of all 
rhetorical figures ; it is the style of strong passion only; and, there¬ 
fore, never to be attempted, unless when the mind is considerably 
heated and agitated. A slight personification of some inanimate 
thing* acting as if it had life, can be relished by the mind, in the 
midst of cool description, and when its ideas are going on in the or¬ 
dinary train. But it must be in a state of violent emotion, and have 
departed considerably from its common track of thought, before it 
can so far realize the personification of an insensible object, as to 
conceive it listening to what we say, or making any return to us. All 
strong passions, however, have a tendency to use this figure, not on¬ 
ly love, anger, and indignation, but even those which are seemingly 
more dispiriting, such as, grief, remorse, and melancholy. For all 





I.ECT. XVI.] 


PERSONIFICATION. 


177 


passions struggle for vent, and if they can find no other object, will, 
rather than be silent, pour themselves forth to woods, and rocks, and 
the most insensible things; especially if these be in any degree con¬ 
nected with the causes and objects that have thrown the mind into 
this agitation. Hence, in poetry, where the greatest liberty is allow¬ 
ed to the language of passion, it is easy to produce many beautiful 
examples of this figure. Milton affords us an extremely fine one, 
in that moving and tender address which Eve makes to Paradise, 
just before she is compelled to leave it. 

Oh! unexpected stroke, worse than of death ! 

Must l thus leave thee, Paradise! thus leave 
Thee, native soil, these happy walks, and shades, 

Fit haunt of gods! where I had hope to spend 
Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day, 

Which must be mortal to us both. O flowers 
That never will in other climate grow, 

My early visitation and my last 

At ev’n, which I bred up with tender hand, 

From your first op’ning buds, and gave you names ! 

Who now shall rear you to the sun, or rank 

Your tribes, and water from th’ ambrosial fount ? Book II. 1. 268. 

This is altogether the language of nature, and of female passion. 
It is observable, that all plaintive passions are peculiarly prone to the 
use of this figure. The complaints which Philoctetes, in Sopho¬ 
cles, pours out to the rocks and caves of Lemnos, amidst the excess 
of his grief and despair, are remarkably fine examples of it.* And 
there are frequent examples, not in poetry only, but in real life, of 
persons when just about to suffer death, taking a passionate fare¬ 
well of the sun, moon, and stars, or other sensible objects around 
them. 

There are two great rules for the management of this sort of per¬ 
sonification. The first rule is, never to attempt it, unless when 
prompted by strong passion, and never to continue it when the passion 
begins to flag. It is one of those high ornaments, which can only 
find place in the most warm and spirited parts of composition; and 
there, too, must be employed with moderation. 

The second rule is, never to personify any object in this way, 
but such as has some dignity in itself, and can make a proper 
figure in this elevation to which we raise it. The observance of 
this rule is required, even in the lower degrees of personification; 
but still more, when an address is made to the personified object. 
To address the corpse of a deceased friend, is natural: but to address 
the clothes which he wore, introduces mean and degrading ideas. So 

* Cl ‘Klfxt'ttfy a •O’go&iXTtc ee %uvou<risu 
©«gav ogt/av, d mirtppaiytc artr^xi 
*T utv rnS • k o"<f i ra \tya>' 

* <wt£*n rote uadio-tv, &tc. 

4 O mountains, rivers, rocks, and savage herds, 

4 To you I speak! to you alone I now 
4 Must breathe my sorrows ! you are wont to hear 
‘ My sad complaints, and I will tell you all 
That I have suffered from Achilles’ son !’ Fbanklsf. 

23 



178 


PERSONIFICATION. 


[-LECT. xvr. 


also, addressing the several parts of one’s body, as if they were 
animated, is not congruous to the dignity of passion. For this rea¬ 
son, I must condemn the following passage, in a very beautiful poem 
of Mr. Pope’s, Eloisa to Abelard. 

Dear fatal name ! rest ever unreveal’d, 

Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal’d. 

Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, 

Where, mix’d with God’s, his lov’d idea lies ; 

Oh! write it not, my hand !—his name appears 

Already written Blot it out, my tears! 

Here are several different objects and parts of the body personi¬ 
fied; and each of them is addressed or spoken to; let us con¬ 
sider with what propriety. The first is the name of Abelard: ‘ Dear 
fatal name! rest ever,’ &c. To this no reasonable objection can be 
made; for, as the name of a person often stands for the person 
himself, and suggests the same ideas, it can bear this personification 
with sufficient dignity. Next, Eloisa speaks to herself, and personi¬ 
fies her heart for this purpose: f Hide it, my heart, within that 
close,’ &c. As the heart is a dignified part of the human frame, and 
is often put for the mind, or affections, this also may pass without 
blame. But, when from her heart she passes to her hand,and tells her 
hand not to write his name, this is forced and unnatural; a personi¬ 
fied hand is low, and not in the style of true passion; and the figure 
becomes still worse, when, in the last place, she exhorts her tears 
to blot out what her hand had written; ‘Oh! write it not,’ &c. 
There is, in these two lines, an air of epigrammatic conceit, which 
native passion never suggests; and which is altogether unsuitable to 
the tenderness which breathes through the rest of that excellent 
poem. 

In prose compositions, this figure requires to be used with still 
greater moderation and delicacy. The same liberty is not allowed 
to the imagination there, as in poetry. The same assistances cannot 
be obtained for raising passion to its proper height by the force of 
numbers, and the glow of style. However, addresses to inanimate 
objects are not excluded from prose; but have their place only in 
the higher species of oratory. A public speaker may, on some oc¬ 
casions, very properly address religion or virtue; or his native 
country, or some city or province, which has suffered perhaps great 
calamities, or been the scene of some memorable action. But we 
must remember, that as such addresses are among the highest efforts 
of eloquence, they should never be attempted, unless by persons of 
more than ordinary genius. For if the orator fails in his design of 
moving our passions by them, he is sure of being laughed at. Of 
all frigid things, the most frigid are the awkward and unseasonable 
attempts sometimes made towards such kinds of personification, es¬ 
pecially if they be long continued. We see the writer or speaker 
toiling and labouring to express the language of some passion, 
which he neither feels himself, nor can make us feel. We remain 
not only cold, but frozen; and are at full leisure to criticise on the 
ridiculous figure which the personified object makes, when we ought 
to have been transported with a glow of enthusiasm. Some of the 


tECT. XVI.] 


APOSTROPHE. 


179 


French writers, particularly Bossuet and Flechier, in their sermons 
and funeral orations, have attempted and executed this figure, not 
without warmth and dignity. Their works are exceedingly worthy of 
being consulted, for instances of this, and ofseveral other ornaments of 
style. Indeed,the vivacity and ardour of the French genius is more 
suited to this bold species of oratory, than the more correct, but 
less animated genius of the British, who, in their prose works, 
very rarely attempt any of the high figures of eloquence.* So 
much for personification or prosopopoeia, in all its different forms. 

Apostrophe is a figure so much of the same kind, that it will not 
require many words. It is an address to a real person, but one who 
is either absent or dead, as if he were present, and listening to us. 
It is so much allied to an address to inanimate objects personified, 
that both these figures are sometimes called apostrophes. However, 
the proper apostrophe is in boldness one degree lower than the ad¬ 
dress to personified objects ; for it certainly requires a less effort of 
imagination to suppose persons present who are dead or absent, than 
to animate insensible beings, and direct our discourse to them. Both 
figures are subject to the same rule of being prompted by passion, in 
order to render them natural; for both are the language of passion or 
strong emotions only. Among the poets, apostrophe is frequent as 
in Virgil: 

-Pereunt Hypenisque Dymasque 

Confixi a sociis ; nec te, tua plurima, Pantheu 


* In the 1 Oraisons Fun&bres de M. Bossuet,’ which I consider as one of the master¬ 
pieces of modern eloquence, apostrophes and addresses to personified objects frequent¬ 
ly occur, and are supported with much spirit. Thus, for instance, in the funeral ora¬ 
tion of Mary of Austria, Queen of France, the author addresses Algiers, in the prospect 
of the advantage which the arms of Louis XIV. were to gain over it: ‘ Avant lui la 
France, presque sans vaisseaux, tenoit en vain aux deux mers. Maintenant, on les 
voit couvertes, depuis le levant jusqu’au couchant, de nos flottes victorieuses ; et la, 
hardiesse Francoise porte partout la terreur avec le nom de Louis. Tu cederas, tu tom- 
bcras sous le vainqueur, Alger! riche des depouilles de la Chretiente. Tu disois en 
ton coeur avare, je tiens la mer sous ma loi, et les nations sont ma proie. La legerete 
de tes vaisseaux te donnoit de la confiance. Mais tu te verras attaque dans tes murailles, 
comme un oisseau ravissant, qu’on iroit chercher parmi scs rochers, et dans son nid, 
ou il partage son butin k ses petits. Tu rends deja tes esclaves. Louis a brise les fers 
dont tu accablois ses sujets, Lc.’ In another passage of the same oration, he thus apos¬ 
trophizes the Isle of Pheasants, which had been rendered famous by being the scene of 
those conferences, in which the treaty of the Pyrenees between France and Spain, and 
the marriage of this princess with the king of France, were concluded. ‘ Isle paci- 
fique ou se doiventterminer les differends dedeux grands empires kqui tu sers de limites: 
isle eternellement memorable par les conferences de deux grands ministres. Auguste 
journee oudeux fieres nations, long terns ennemis, et alors reconciles par Marie Therese, 
Vavai^ent sur leurs con6ns, leurs rois k leur tete, non plus pour se combattre, mais 
pour s’embrasser. Fetes sacrees, marriage fortune, voile nuptial, benediction, sa¬ 
crifice, puis je meler aujourdhui vos ceremonies, et vos pompes avec ces pompes 
funebres, et le comble des grandeurs avec leurs ruines!’ In the funeral oration of 
Henrietta, Queen of England, (which is perhaps the noblest of all his compositions) 
after recounting all she had done to support her unfortunate husband, he concludes 
with this beautiful apostrophe: ‘O mere! 0 femme! O reine admirable, et digne 
d’une meilleure fortune, si les fortunes de la terre etoient quelque chose ! Enfin 
il faut c6der k votre sort. Vous avez assez soutenu l’etat qui est attaqife, par une force 
invincible et divine. Il ne reste plus desormais, si non que vous teniez feme pami 
ses ruines.’ 




180 


APOSTROPHE. 


[lect. xvr< 


Labentera pietas, nec Apollinis insula texit !* 

The poems of Ossian are full of the most beautiful instances of 
this figure: ‘Weep on the rocks of roaring winds, 0 maid of Inis- 
tore! Bend thy fair head over the waves, thou fairer than the ghosts 
of the hills, when it moves in a sunbeam at noon over the silence of 
Morven ! He is fallen! Thy youth is low; pale beneath the sword of 
CuchullinI’t Quintilian affords us a very fine example in prose; 
when in the beginning of his sixth book, deploring the untimely 
death of his son, which had happened during the course of the 
work, he makes a very moving and tender apostrophe to him. ‘Nam 
quo ille animo, qua medicorum admiratione, mensium octo valetu- 
dinem tulit? ut me in supremis consolatus est? quam etiam jam 
deficiens, jamque non noster, ipsum ilium alienatae mentis errorem 
circa solas literas habuit ? Tuosne ergo, 0 meae spes inanes ! laben- 
tes oculos, tuum fugientem spiritum vidi? Tuum corpus frigidum, 
exangue complexus, animam recipere, auramque communem hau- 
rire amplius potui ? Tone, consulari nuper adoptione ad omnium 
spes honorum patris admotum, te, avunculo praetori generum desti- 
natum; te, omnium spe Atticae eloquentiae candidatum, parens su- 
perstes tantum ad poenas amisi Pf In this passage Quintilian shows 
the true genius of an orator, as much as he does elsewhere that of 
the critic. 

For such bold figures of discourse as strong personifications, ad¬ 
dresses to personified objects, and apostrophes, the glowing imagina¬ 
tion of the ancient oriental nations was particularly fitted. Hence, 
inthesacred scriptures, we find some very remarkable instances: ‘0 
thou sword of the Lord! how long will it be ere thou be quiet? put 
thyself up into thy scabbard, rest and be still! How can it be quiet, 
seeing the Lord hath given it a charge against Ashkelon, and against 
the sea-shore? there he hath appointed it.’|| There is one passage 
in particular, which I must not omit to mention, because it contains 
a greater assemblage of sublime ideas, of bold and daring figures, 
than is perhaps any where to be met with. It is in the fourteenth 
chapter of Isaiah, where the prophet thus describes the fall of the 
Assyrian empire: ‘ Thou shalt take up this proverb against the king 
of Babylon, and say, how hath the oppressor ceased! the golden 

* Nor Pantheus ! thee, thy mitre, nor the bands 

Of awful Phoebus, sav’d from impious hands. Dryden. 

f Fingal, B I 

\ 1 With what spirit, and how much to the admiration of the physicians, did he bear 
throughout eight months his lingering distress ? With what tender attention did he 
study^ even in the last extremity, to comfort me ? And when no longer himself, how 
affecting was it to behold the disordered efforts of his wandering mind, wholly employ¬ 
ed on subjects of literature ? Ah ! my frustrated and fallen hopes! Have I then beheld 
your closing eyes, and heard the last groan issue from your lips ? After having 
embraced your cold and breathless body, how was it in my power to draw the vital 
air, or continue to drag a miserable life ? When I had just beheld you raised by con¬ 
sular adoption to the prospect of all your father’s honours, destined to be son-in-law to 
your uncle the Ftaetor, pointed out by general expectation as the successful candidate 
for the prize of Attic eloquence, in this moment of your opening honours must I 
lose you for ever, and remain an unhappy parent, surviving only to suffer wo !* 
ft Jer. xlvii. 6, 7. 



LECT. XVI.] 


APOSTROPHE. 


181 


city ceased ! The Lord hath broken the staff of the wicked, and the 
sceptre of the rulers. He who smote the people in wrath with a 
continual stroke ; he that ruled the nations in anger, is persecuted, 
and none hindereth. The whole earth is at rest, and is quiet: they 
break forth into singing. Yea, the fir-trees rejoice at thee, and the 
cedars of Lebanon, saying, since thou art laid down, no feller is come 
up against us. Hell from beneath is moved for thee, to meet thee 
at thy coming: it stirreth up the dead for thee, even all the chief 
ones of the earth : it hath raised up from their thrones all the kings 
of the nations. All they shall speak, and say unto thee, art thou 
also become weak as we 1 art thou become like unto us 1 Thy pomp 
is brought down to the grave, and the noise of thy viols; the worm 
is spread under thee, and the worms cover thee. How art thou 
fallen from Heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning ! how art thou 
cut down to the ground, which didst weaken the nations ! For thou 
hast said in thine heart, I will ascend into Heaven, I will exalt my 
throne above the stars of God : I will sit also upon the mount of 
the congregation, in the sides of the north. I will ascend above the 
heights of the clouds, I will be like the Most High. Yet thou shalt 
be brought down to hell, to the sides of the pit. They that see thee 
shall narrowly look upon thee, and consider thee, saying, is this the 
man that made the earth to tremble, that did shake kingdoms'! 
That made the world as a wilderness, and destroyed the cities 
thereof; that opened not the house of his prisoners ? All the kings 
of the nations, even all of them lie in glory, every one in his own 
house. But thou art cast out of thy grave, like an abominable 
branch : and as the raiment of those that are slain, thrust through 
with a sword, that go down to the stones of the pit, as a carcass 
trodden under feet.’ This whole passage is full of sublimity. Every 
object is animated ; a variety of personages are introduced ; we hear 
the Jews, the fir-trees, and cedars of Lebanon, the ghosts of depart¬ 
ed kings, the king of Babylon himself, and those who look upon his 
body, all speaking in their order, and acting their different parts, 
without confusion. 


QUESTIONS. 


What is the next figure of which 
our author is to treat called; and in 
what does it consist ? How may it be 
considered ; and what remark follows ? 
AVhether we call it trope or figure, 
what is plain; and why ? How is this 
illustrated? In what manner has the 
imagination a tendency to gratify it¬ 
self? According to what will more or 
less of this hyperbolical turn prevail ? 
Hence, what consequences follow ? 
What is the effect of greater experi- 
2J) 


ence, and more cultivated society? 
What scarcely strike us as hyperboles; 
and why? When does it rise into a 
figure of* speech which draws our at¬ 
tention ? What is it necessary here to 
observe; and why? Hence, what fol¬ 
lows? Why is it on some occasions 
proper ? When they are unseasonable, 
what is their effect ? Of what authors 
are they the resource? Of what two 
kinds are hyperboles ? Which are the 
best: and why? Of all the passions. 





[lect. XVI. 


181 a QUESTIONS. 


what is observed ? Hence, of the fol¬ 
lowing sentiments of Satan, in Milton, 
what is observed ? Repeat the passage. 
In simple description how must hyper¬ 
boles be used; what do they require; 
and why ? When can we bear strong 
hyperboles without displeasure? But, 
when is it impossible not to be disgust¬ 
ed ? What example is given; and of 
it what is observed ? Who might, and 
who might not be permitted to hyper¬ 
bolize thus strongly; and for what 
reason? What cannot be ascertained 
by any precise rule ? What must de¬ 
termine the point; and what follows ? 
Of Lucan, what is observed ? Among 
the compliments paid by the Roman 
poets to their Emperors, what had be¬ 
come common? What illustration of 
this remark have we from Virgil ? Re¬ 
solved to outdo all his predecessors, 
what does Lucan very gravely request 
of Nero ? Repeat the passage. What 
do the French call such thoughts; and 
from what do they always proceed ? 
What writers are remarkable for being 
fond of them; and what is sometimes 
their effect ? On what do epigrammatic 
writers frequently rest the whole merit 
of their epigrams? What example is 
given? To what figures do we now 
proceed ? Among these, to what is the 
first place due ? Why is personification 
used instead of prosopopoeia? Of the 
use of this figure, what is observed; 
and where is its foundation laid? At 
first view, and when considered ab¬ 
stractly, how would it appear; and 
why ? What might one imagine this to 
be; but, on the contrary, what is re¬ 
marked of it ? What abounds with it; 
and from what is it far from being ex¬ 
cluded? What instances of its use in com¬ 
mon conversation are mentioned, and 
what do such expressions show? Indeed, 
what is very remarkable? What remark 
follows? How is this remark illustrated ? 
What further illustrations are given ? 
With what do they seem endowed ; of 
what do they become objects ; and in 
the moment of parting, what scarcely 
seems absurd ? Of what is it probable, 
that this strong impression of life was 
one cause ? In the early ages of the 
world, what easily arose from this turn 
of mind ? How is this illustrated ? By 
thus gaining what, was the imagina¬ 
tion highly gratified; and what follow¬ 
ed? From this deduction, what may 


easily be seen ? On innumerable occa¬ 
sions, what is it; and therefore, what 
does it deserve ? How many degrees 
of this figure are there; and why is it 
necessary to distinguish them ? Repeat 
them. Where the lowest degree of this 
figure is used, in what is it most com¬ 
monly done; what examples are given; 
and what is its effect ? Of this degree 
of personification, what is observed? 
When happily, however, what is its 
effect ? What example is given; and 
what is said of it? What is the next 
degree of this figure; and what is said 
of it? According to what, is the strength 
of this figure ? When pursued to any 
length, to what only does it belong; 
and when slightly touched, into what 
may it be admitted ? To illustrate this 
remark, what instance is given from 
Cicero? Where may such short per¬ 
sonifications be admitted; and under 
what circumstances do they have a 
good effect upon style ? 

Why does the genius of our language 
give us an advantage in the use of this 
figure? In what discourse may this 
often be done to good purpose ? To illus¬ 
trate this remark, what example is 
given, and what do we see in it ? At 
the same time, what must be noticed ? 
Whom is the author comparing toge¬ 
ther ? Repeat the passage. Of it, what 
is observed? What circumstance, also, 
contributes to its effect ? Did any Eng¬ 
lish sermons affoid us many passages 
equal to this, what would be the conse¬ 
quence ? Where are personifications of 
this kind extremely frequent; and 
what are they ? In the descriptions of 
a poet who has a lively fancy, what do 
we expect; accordingly, what follows? 
What are alive in his writings; and 
with whom is the case the same? 
What is said of Milton’s personification 
of Eve’s eating the forbidden fruit? 
Repeat the passage. W r hat are capa¬ 
ble of being personified in poetry, with 
great propriety? Of this, where do we 
meet with frequent examples? What 
is one of the greatest pleasures we 
receive from poetry ? What is perhaps 
the principal charm of this kind of figu¬ 
rative style? Where is this exempli¬ 
fied? Repeat the passage. In what 
passage of Milton, is the same effect 
remarkable? What is the third and 
highest degree of this figure ? Of this, 
what is observed: and why ? When 



LECT. XVII.] 


QUESTIONS. 


181 b 


can a slight personification of some in¬ 
animate thing, be relished ? But, what 
follows? What, however, have a ten¬ 
dency to use this figure; what exam¬ 
ples are given; and why? Hence, 
what follows? In what does Milton 
afford an extremely fine example of 
this ? Repeat the passage; and of it 
what is observed? What is here ob¬ 
servable? What affords a very fine ex¬ 
ample? Repeat it. Of what are there 
frequent examples in real life ? Of the 
two great rules for the management of 
this figure, what is the first; and why? 
What is the second ? Wdiere is the ob¬ 
servation of this rule required ? How 
is this illustrated ? For this reason, 
what passage does our author con¬ 
demn ? What remarks are made upon 
it ? How does this figure require to be 
used in prose composition? What there 
is not allowed; and what cannot be 
ascertained? However, wnat follows; 
and how is this illustrated? But what 
must we remember; and why? Of all 
frigid things, what are the most frigid ? 
In what situation do we see the writer or 
speaker; and in what situation do we 
find ourselves ? How have some of the 
French writers executed this figure ? 
For what are their works exceedingly 
worthy of being consulted; and for 
what reason ? Of the apostrophe, what 
is observed ? What is it? To what is it 
much allied? However, what is the 
proper apostrophe; and why? To what 
rule are both figures subject ? What 
example is given ? Among the poets, 


what are frequent; and what example 
is given ? Of the poems of Ossian, what 
is observed; and what example is given? 
Under what circumstances does Quin¬ 
tilian make a very moving apostrophe? 
Repeat the passage; and in it, what 
does he show? For such bold figures 
of discourse as strong personification, 
what was particularly fitted ? Hence, 
where do we find some very remarka¬ 
ble instances ? Repeat the following 
passage ? Why must our author not 
omit to mention the passage in the four¬ 
teenth chapter of Isaiah? Repeat it. 
Of what is this whole passage full; 
and what further remarks are made 
upon it ? 


ANALYSIS. 

1. Hyperbole. 

a. Hyperboles employed in descrip¬ 
tion. 

B. Hyperboles suggested by the 
warmth of passion. 

Figures of thought. 

2. Personification. 

a. Living properties ascribed to in¬ 

animate objects. 

b. Inanimate objects acting like those 

that have life. 

c. Inanimate objects introduced as 

speaking to us. 

a. To be employed only when 

prompted by strong passion. 

b. Objects of dignity only should 

be personified. 

3. Apostrophe. 


LECTURE XVII. 


COMPARISON, ANTITHESIS, INTERROGATION, 
EXCLAMATION, AND OTHER FIGURES 
OF SPEECH. 

We are still engaged in the consideration of figures of speech ; 
which, as they add much to the beauty of style when properly em¬ 
ployed, and are, at the same time, liable to be greatly abused, require 
a careful discussion. As it would be tedious to dwell on all the va¬ 
riety of figurative expressions which rhetoricians have enumerated, I 
choose to select the capital figures, such as occur most frequently, and 










COMPARISON. 


[LECT. XVII- 


182 

and make my remarks on these; the principles and rules laid down 
concerning them, will sufficiently direct us to the use of the rest, 
either in prose or poetry. Of metaphor, which is the most common of 
them all, l treated fully, and in the last lecture I discoursed of hy¬ 
perbole, personification, and apostrophe. This lecture will nearly 
finish what remains on the head of figures. 

Comparison, or simile, is what I am to treat of first; a figure fre¬ 
quently employed both by poets and prose writers, for the ornament 
of composition. In a former lecture, I explained fully the difference 
betwixt this and metaphor. A metaphor is a comparison, implied, 
but not expressed as such ; as when I say , 6 Achilles is a lion,’ mean¬ 
ing, that he resembles one in courage or strength. A compa¬ 
rison is, when the resemblance between two objects is expressed in 
form, and generally pursued more fully than the nature of a meta¬ 
phor admits; as when I say, ‘ the actions of princes are like those 
great rivers, the course of which every one beholds, but their springs 
have been seen by few.’ This slight instance will show, that a happy 
comparison is a kind of sparkling ornament, which adds not a little 
lustre and beauty to discourse; and hence such figures are termed 
by Cicero, ‘ Orationis lumina.’ 

The pleasure we take in comparisons is just and natural. We may 
remark three different sources whence it arises. First, from the 
pleasure which nature has annexed to that act of the mind by which 
we compare any two objects together, trace resemblances among 
those that are different, and differences among those that resemble 
each other; a pleasure, the final cause of which is, to prompt us to 
remark and observe, and thereby to make us advance in useful know¬ 
ledge. This operation of the mind is naturally and universally 
agreeable; as appears from the delight which even children have in 
comparing things together, as soon as they are capable of attending 
to the objects that surround them. Secondly, the pleasure of 
comparison arises from the illustration which the simile employed 
gives to the principal object; from the clearer view of it which it 
presents ; or the more strong impression of it which it stamps upon 
the mind: and, thirdly, it arises from the introduction of a new, 
and commonly a splendid object, associated to the principal one of 
which we treat; and from the agreeable picture which that object 
presents to the fancy; new scenes being thereby brought into view; 
which, without the assistance of this figure, we could not have en- 
joyed. 

All comparisons whatever may be reduced under two heads, ex¬ 
plaining and embellishing comparisons. For when a writer likens 
the object of which he treats to any other thing, it always is,or at 
least always should be, with a view either to make us understand that 
object more distinctly, or to dress it up and adorn it. All manner 
of subjects admit of explaining comparisons. Let an author be rea¬ 
soning ever so strictly, or treating the most abstruse point in philo¬ 
sophy, he may very properly introduce a comparison, merely with a 
view to make his subject better understood. Of this nature, is the 
following in Mr. Harris’s Hermes, employed to explain a very ab- 


I.ECT. XVII.j 


COMPARISON. 


183 


stract point, the distinction between the powers of sense and imagi¬ 
nation in the human mind. ‘ As wax/ says he, ‘would not be ade¬ 
quate to the purpose of signature, if it had not the power to retain 
as well as to receive the impression; the same holds of the soul, 
with respect to sense and imagination. Sense is its receptive pow¬ 
er; imagination its retentive. Had it sense without imagination, it 
would not be as wax, but as water, where,though all impressions be 
instantly made, yet as soon as they are made, they are instantly lost.’ 
In comparisons of this nature, the understanding is concerned much 
more than the fancy; and therefore the only rules to be observed, 
with respect to them, are, that they be clear and that they be useful ; 
that the}- tend to render our conception of the principal object more 
distinct; and that they do not lead our view aside, and bewilder it 
with any false light. 

But embellishing comparisons, introduced not so much with a 
view to inform and instruct, as to adorn the subject of which we 
treat, are those with which we are chiefly concerned at present, as 
figures of speech; and those, indeed, which most frequently oc¬ 
cur. Resemblance, as I before mentioned, is the foundation of 
this figure. We must not, however, take resemblance, in too strict 
a sense, for actual similitude and likeness of appearance. Two objects 
may sometimes be very happily compared to one another, 
though they resemble each other, strictly speaking, in nothing; 
only because they agree in the effects which they produce upon 
the mind; because they raise a train of similar, or what may be 
called, concordant ideas; so that the remembrance of the one, 
when recalled, serves to strengthen the impression made by the 
other, For example, to describe the nature of soft and melancho¬ 
ly music, Ossian says, ‘The music of Carryl was, like the memo¬ 
ry of joys that are past, pleasant and mournful to the soul.’ This 
is happy and delicate. Yet, surely, no kind of music has any re¬ 
semblance to a feeling of the mind, such as the memory of past 
joys. Had it been compared to the voice of the nightingale, or 
the murmur of the stream, as it would have been by some ordinary 
poet, the likeness would have been more strict: but, by founding his 
simileupon the effect which Carryl’s music produced, the poet, while 
he conveys a very tender image, gives us, at the same time, a 
much stronger impression of the nature and strain of that music: 
‘Like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant and mournful to 
the soul/ 

In general, whether comparisons be founded on the similitude of 
the two objects compared, or on some analogy and agreement in 
their effects, the fundamental requisite of a comparison is, that it 
shall serve to illustrate the object, for the sake of which it is intro¬ 
duced, and to give us a stronger conception of it. Some little ex¬ 
cursions of fancy maybe permitted, in pursuing the simile; but 
they must never deviate far from the principal object. If it be a 
great and noble one, every circumstance in the comparison must 
tend to aggrandize it; if it be a beautiful one, to render it more 
amiable; if terrible, to fill us with more awe. But to be a little more 


184 


COMPARISON. 


[lect. XVII. 


particular: The rules to be given concerning comparisons, respect 
chiefly two articles; the propriety of their introduction, and the 
nature of the objects whence they are taken. First, the propriety 
of their introduction. From what has been already said of com¬ 
parisons, it appears, that they are not, like the figures of which I 
treated in the last lecture, the language of strong passion. No; 
they are the language of imagination rather than of passion; of an 
imagination, sprightly indeed, and warmed; but undisturbed by 
any violent or agitating emotion. Strong passion is too severe to 
admit this play of fancy. It has no leisure to cast about for resem¬ 
bling objects; it dwells on that object which has seized and taken 
possession of the soul. It is too much occupied and tilled by it, to 
turn its view aside, or to fix its attention on any other thing. An 
author, therefore, can scarcely commit a greater fault, than in the 
midst of passion, to introduce a simile. Metaphorical expression 
may be allowable in such a situation; though even this may be car¬ 
ried too far; but the pomp and solemnity of a formal comparison 
is altogether a stranger to passion. It changes the key in a moment; 
relaxes and brings down the mind; and shows us a writer perfectly 
at his ease, while he is personating some other, who is supposed to 
be under the torment of agitation. Our writers of tragedies are very 
apt to err here. In some of Mr. Rowe’s plays, these flowers of 
similes have been strewed unseasonably. Mr. Addison’s Cato, too, 
is justly censurable in this respect; as when Portius, just after Lucia 
had bid him farewell for ever, and when he should naturally have 
been represented as in the most violent anguish, makes his reply in 
a studied and affected comparison : 

Thus o’er the dying- lamp th’ unsteady flame 

Hangs quiv’ring on a point, leaps off by fits, 

And falls again, as loth to quit its hold. 

Thou must not go; my soul still hovers o’er thee, 

And can’t get loose. 

Every one must be sensible, that this is quite remote from the lan¬ 
guage of nature on such occasions. 

However, as comparison is not the style of strong passion, so 
neither, when employed for embellishment, is it the language of a 
mind wholly unmoved. It is a figure of dignity, and always requires 
some elevation in the subject, in order to make it proper: for it supposes 
the imagination to be uncommonly enlivened, though the heart be 
not agitated by passion. In a word, the proper place of compari¬ 
sons lies in the middle region,between the highly pathetic, and the 
very humble style. This is a wide field, and gives ample range to 
the figure. But even this field we must take care not to overstock 
with it. For, as we before said, it is a sparkling ornament; and all 
things that sparkle, dazzle and fatigue, if they recur too often. 
Similes should, even in poetry, be used with moderation; but in 
prose writings, much more; otherwise the style will become dis¬ 
agreeably florid, and the ornament lose its virtue and effect. 

I proceed, next, to the rules that relate to objects, whence com¬ 
parisons should be drawn: supposing them introduced in their pro¬ 
per place. 


LECT. XVII.] 


COMPARISON. 


185 


In the first place, they must not be drawn from things, which 
have too near and obvious a resemblance to the object with which 
we compare them. The great pleasure of the act of comparing 
lies, in discovering likenesses among things of different species, 
where we would not, at the first glance, expect a resemblance. 
There is little art or ingenuity in pointing out the resemblance of two 
objects, that are so much akin, or lie so near to one another in nature, 
that every one sees they must be alike. When Milton compares Satan’s 
appearance, after his fall, to that of the sun suffering an eclipse, and af¬ 
frighting the nations with portentous darkness, we are struck with the 
happiness and the dignity of the similitude. But when he compares 
Eve’s bower in Paradise, to the arbour of Pomona; or Eve herself, to 
a driad, or wood-nymph, we receive little entertainment; as every one 
sees, that one arbour must, of course, in several respects, resemble 
another arbour, and one beautiful woman another beautiful woman. 

Among similes, faulty through too great obviousness of the like¬ 
ness, we must likewise rank those which are taken from objects 
become trite and familiar in poetical language. Such are the simi¬ 
les of a hero to a lion, of a person in sorrow to a flower drooping 
its head, of violent passion to a tempest, of chastity to snow, of 
virtue to the sun or the stars, and many more of this kind, with 
which we are sure to find modern writers, of second rate genius, 
abounding plentifully; handed down from one writer of ver¬ 
ses to another, as by hereditary right. These comparisons were, 
at first, perhaps, very proper for the purposes to which they are 
applied. In the ancient original poets, who took them directly from 
nature, not from their predecessors, they had beauty. But they 
are now beaten; our ears are so accustomed to them, that they give 
no amusement to the fancy. There is, indeed, no mark by which 
we can more readily distinguish a poet of true genius, from one of 
a barren imagination, than by the strain of their comparisons. All 
who call themselves poets, affect them : but, whereas, a mere versi¬ 
fier copies no new image from nature, which appears, to his 
uninventive genius, exhausted by those who have gone before 
him, and, therefore, contents himself with humbly following 
their track; to an author of real fancy, nature seems to unlock, 
spontaneously, her hidden stores; and the eye, ‘quick glancing 
from earth to Heaven,’ discovers new shapes and forms, new like¬ 
nesses between objects unobserved before, which render his similes 
original, expressive, and lively. 

But in the second place, as comparisons ought not to be founded 
on likenesses too obvious, still less ought they to be founded on those 
which are too faint and remote. For these, in place of assisting, 
strain the fancy to comprehend them, and throw no light upon the 
subject. It is also to be observed, that a comparison, which, in 
the principal circumstances, carries a sufficiently near resemblance, 
may become unnatural and obscure, if pushed too far. Nothing 
is more opposite to the design of this figure, than to hunt after a 
«reat number of coincidences in minute points, merely to show 

” n a 


186 


COMPARISON. 


[LECT. XVII. 


how far the poet’s wit can stretch the resemblance. This is Mr. 
Cowley’s common fault; whose comparisons generally run out so 
far, as to become rather a studied exercise of wit, than an illustra¬ 
tion of the principal object. We need only open his works, his odes 
especially, to find instances every where. 

In the third place, the object from which a comparison is drawn, 
should never be an unknown object, or one of which few people 
can form clear ideas: ‘ Ad inferendam rebus lucem,’ says Quintilian, 
6 repertae sunt similitudines. Praecipue, igitur, est custodiendum ne 
id quod similitudinis gratia ascivimus, aut obscurum sitr,aut ignotum. 
Debet eniin id quod illustrandae alterius rei gratia assumitur, ipsum 
esse clarius eo quod illuminatur.’* Comparisons, therefore, founded 
on philosophical discoveries, or on any thing with which persons of 
a certain trade only, or a certain profession, are conversant, attain not 
their proper effect. They should be taken from those illustrious, 
noted objects, which most of the readers either have seen, or can 
strongly conceive. This leads me to remark a fault of which mo¬ 
dern poets are very apt to be guilty. The ancients took their simi¬ 
les from that face of nature, and that class of objects, with which 
they and their readers were acquainted. Hence,lions, and wolves, 
and serpents,were fruitful, and very proper sources of similes amongst 
them; and these having become a sort of consecrated, classical images, 
are very commonly adopted by the moderns; injudiciously, how¬ 
ever, for the propriety of them is now in a great measure lost. 
It is only at second hand, and by description, that we are acquainted 
with many of those objects; and, to most readers of poetry, it were 
more to the purpose, to describe lions or serpents, by similes taken 
from men, than to describe men by lions. Now-a-days, we can more ea¬ 
sily form the conception of a fierce combat between two men, than be¬ 
tween abull andatiger. Every country has a scenery peculiar to it¬ 
self, and the imagery of every good poet will exhibit it. The introduc¬ 
tion of unknown objects,or of a foreign scenery, betrays a poet copying 
not after nature, but from other writers. I have only to observe further 
In the fourth place, that, in compositions of a serious or elevated ? 
kind, similes should never be taken from low or mean objects. These 
are degrading: whereas, similes are commonly intended to embel¬ 
lish, and to dignify: and therefore, unless in burlesque writings, or 
where similes are introduced purposely to vilify and diminish an 
object, mean ideas should never be presented to us. Some of Ho¬ 
mer’s comparisons have been taxed, without reason, on this account. 
For it is to be remembered, that the meanness or dignity of objects* 
depends, in a great degree, on the ideas and manners of the age 
wherein we live. Many similes, therefore, drawn from the inci¬ 
dents of rural life, which appear low to us, had abundance of dio-ni- 
ty in those simpler ages of antiquity. 


* ‘ Comparisons have been introduced into discourse, for the sake of throwing- lig-ht 
on the subject. We must, therefore, be much on our guard, not to employ, as the ground 
of our simile, any object which is either obscure or unknown. That surely which is 
used for the purpose of illustrating some other thing, ought to be more obvious and 
plain, than the thing intended to be illustrated.’ 





X.ECT. XVII.] 


ANTITHESIS. 


187 


I have now considered such of the figures of speech as seemed 
most to merit a full and particular discussion: metaphor, hyperbole, 
personification, apostrophe, and comparison. A few more yet re¬ 
main to be mentioned; the proper use and conduct of which will 
be easily understood from the principles already laid down. 

As comparison is founded on the resemblance, so antithesis on 
the contrast or opposition of two objects. Contrast has always this 
effect, to make each of the contrasted objects appear in the stronger 
light. White, for instance, never appears so bright, as when it is 
opposed to black; and when both are viewed together. Antithe¬ 
sis, therefore, may, on many occasions, be employed to advantage, 
in order to strengthen the impression which we intend that any ob¬ 
ject should 'make. Thus Cicero, in his oration for Milo, represent¬ 
ing the improbability of Milo’s forming a design to take away the 
life of Clodius, at a time when all circumstances were unfavourable 
to such a design, and after he had let other opportunities slip when 
he could have executed the same design, if he had formed it, with 
much more ease and safety, heightens our conviction of this impro¬ 
bability by a skilful use of this figure : 4 Quern igitur cum omnium 
gratia interficere noluit, hunc voluit cum aliquorum querela ? Quern 
jure, quern loco, quern tempore, quern impune, non est ausus, hunc 
injurio, iniquoloco, alieno tempore, periculo capitis, non dubitavit 
occidere?’* In order to render an antithesis more complete, it is 
always of advantage, that the words and members of the sentence, 
expressing the contrasted objects, be, as in this instance of Cicero’s, 
similarly constructed, and made to correspond to each other. This 
leads us to remark the contrast more, by setting the things which 
we oppose more clearly over against each other; in the same man¬ 
ner as when we contrast a black and a white object, in order to 
perceive the full difference of their colour, we would choose to have 
lioth objects of the same bulk, and placed in the same light. Their 
resemblance to each other, in certain circumstances, makes their 
disagreement in others more palpable. 

At the same time, I must observe,that the frequent use of anti¬ 
thesis, especially where the opposition in the words is nice and 
quaint, is apt to render style disagreeable. Such a sentence as the 
following, from Seneca, does very well, where it stands alone : 4 Si 
quern volueris esse divitem, non est quod augeas divitias, sed minu- 
as cupiditates.’t Or this: 4 Si ad naturam vives, nunquam eris pau¬ 
per ; si ad opinionem, nunquam dives.’f A maxim or moral say¬ 
ing, properly enough receives this form; both because it is supposed 


* ‘ Is it credible that, when he declined putting Clodius to death with the consent of 
all, he would choose to do it with the disapprobation of many ? Can you believe that 
the person whom he scrupled to slay, when he might have done so with full justice, in 
a convenient place, at a proper time, with secure impunity, he made no scruple to mur¬ 
der against justice, in an unfavourable place, at an unseasonable time, and at the 
risk of capital condemnation ?’ 

f ‘ If you seek to make one rich, study not to increase his stores, but to diminish 

his desires.’ , , „ 

X ‘ If you regulate your desires according to the standard of nature, you will never 
he poor ; if according to the standard of opinion, you will never be rich.’ 

2 E 



188 


INTERROGATION AND [lect. xvii. 


to be the fruit of meditation, and because it is designed to be engra¬ 
ven on the memory, which recalls it more easily by the help of such 
contrasted expressions. But where a string of such sentences suc¬ 
ceed each other; where this becomes an author’s favourite and pre¬ 
vailing manner of expressing himself, his style is faulty; and it is 
upon this account Seneca has been often, and justly, censured. 
Such a style appears too studied and laboured; it gives us the im¬ 
pression of an author attending more to his manner of saying things, 
than to the things themselves which he says. Dr. Young, though a 
writer of real genius, was too fond of antithesis. In his Estimate of 
Human Life, we find whole passages that run in such a strain as this: 
6 The peasant complains aloud ; the courtier in secret repines. In 
want, what distress ? in affluence, what satiety ? The great are un¬ 
der as much difficulty to expend with pleasure, as the mean to la¬ 
bour with success. The ignorant, through ill-grounded hope, are 
disappointed; the knowing, through knowledge, despond. Igno¬ 
rance occasions mistake ; mistake disappointment; and disappoint¬ 
ment is misery. Knowledge, on the other hand, gives true judg¬ 
ment; and true judgment of human things, gives a demonstration 
of their insufficiency to our peace.’ There is too much glitter in 
such a style as this, to please long. We are fatigued, by attending 
to such quaint and artificial sentences often repeated. 

There is another sort of antithesis, the beauty of which consists 
in surprising us by the unexpected contrast of things which it brings 
together. Much wit may be shown in this: but it belongs wholly 
to pieces of professed wit and humour, and can find no place in 
grave compositions. Mr. Pope, who is remarkably fond of antithe¬ 
sis, is often happy in this use of the figure. So, in his Rape of the 
Lock: 

Whether the nymph shall break Diana’s law, 

Or some frail china jar receive a flaw; 

Or stain her honour, or her new brocade; 

Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade; 

Or lose her heart or necklace at a ball, 

Or whether Heav’n has doom’d that Shock must fall. 

What is called the point of an epigram, consists, for the most part, in 
some antithesis of this kind ; surprising us with the smart and unex¬ 
pected turn which it gives to the thought; and in the fewer words 
it is brought out, it is always the happier. 

Comparisons and antitheses are figures of a cool nature; produc¬ 
tions of imagination, not of passion. Interrogations and exclama¬ 
tions, of which I am next to speak, are passionate figures. They are, 
indeed, on so many occasions, the native language of passion, that 
their use is extremely frequent; and in ordinary conversation, when 
men are heated, they prevail as much as in the most sublime ora¬ 
tory. The unfigured literal use of interrogation, is to ask a ques¬ 
tion ; but when men are prompted by passion, whatever they would 
affirm or deny, with great vehemence, they naturally put in the form 
of a question; expressing thereby the strongest confidence of the 
truth of their own sentiment, and appealing to their hearers for the 
impossibility of the contrary. Thus in scripture: ‘God is not a 


LECT. XVII.] 


EXCLAMATION. 


189 


man that he should lie, neither the son of man, that he should re¬ 
pent. Hath he said it, and shall he not do it? Hath he spoken 
it, and shall he not make it good?’* So Demosthenes, addressing 
himself to the Athenians: ‘Tell me, will you still go about and ask 
one another, what news? What can be more astonishing news than 
this, that the man of Macedon makes war upon the Athenians, and 
disposes of the affairs of Greece? Is Philip dead? No, but he is 
sick. What signifies it to you whether he be dead or alive? For, if 
any thing happens to this Philip, you will immediately raise up an¬ 
other/ All this, delivered without interrogation, had been faint and 
ineffectual; but the warmth and eagerness which this questioning 
method expresses, awakens the hearers, and strikes them with much 
greater force. 

Interrogation may often be applied with propriety, in the course 
of no higher emotions than naturally arise in pursuing some close 
and earnest reasoning. But exclamations belong only to stronger 
emotions of the mind; to surprise,-admiration, anger, joy, grief, and 
the like : 

. Heu pietas! heu prisca fides! invictaque bello 
Dextra! 

Both interrogation and exclamation, and, indeed, all passionate 
figures of speech, operate upon us by means of sympathy. Sym¬ 
pathy is a very powerful and extensive principle in our nature, dis¬ 
posing us to enter into every feeling and passion, which we behold 
expressed by others. Hence, a single person coming into company 
with strong marks, either of melancholy or joy, upon his counte¬ 
nance, will diffuse that passion, in a moment, through the whole 
circle. Hence, in a great crowd, passions are so easily caught, and 
so fast spread, by that powerful contagion which the animated looks, 
cries, and gestures of a multitude, never fail to carry. Now, inter¬ 
rogations and exclamations, being natural signs of a moved and 
agitated mind, always, when they are properly used, dispose us to 
sympathize with the dispositions of those who use them, and to feel 
as they feel. 

From this it follows, that the great rule with regard to the con¬ 
duct of such figures is, that the writer attend to the manner in which 
nature dictates to us to express any emotion or passion, and that 
he give his language that turn, and no other; above all, that he 
never affect the style of a passion which he does no feel. With in¬ 
terrogations he may use a good deal of freedom; thesq, as above 
observed, falling in so much with the ordinary course of language 
and reasoning, even when no great vehemence is supposed to have 
place in the mind. But, with respect to exclamations, he must be 
more reserved. Nothing has a worse effect than the frequent and 
unseasonable use of theim Raw, juvenile writers, imagine, that 
by pouring them forth often, they render their compositions warm 
and animated. Whereas quite the contrary follows. They render 
it frigid to excess. When an author is always calling upon us to en¬ 
ter into transports which he has said nothing to inspire, we are both 


Numbers, chap, xxiii. v. 19. 




U) 0 


INTERROGATION, &c. 


[lect. XVII, 


disgusted and enraged at him. He raises no sympathy ; for he gives 
us no passion of his own, in which we can take part. He gives us 
words and not passion; and of course, can raise no passion, unless 
that of indignation. Hence, I am inclined to think, he was not much 
mistaken, who said, that when, on looking into a book, he found 
the pages thick bespangled with the point which is called, k Punc¬ 
tilio admirationis,’ he judged this to be a sufficient reason for his lay¬ 
ing it aside. And, indeed, were it not for the help of this ‘punc¬ 
tual admirationis,’ with which many writers of the rapturous kind 
so much abound, one would be often at a loss to discover, whether 
or not it was exclamation which they aimed at. For, it has now 
become a fashion, among these writers, to subjoin points of admi¬ 
ration to sentences, which contain nothing but simple affirmations, 
or propositions; as if, by an affected method of pointing, they 
could transform them in the reader’s mind into high figures of elo¬ 
quence. Much akin to this, is another contrivance practised by 
some writers, of separating almost all the members of the senten¬ 
ces from each other, by blank lines; as if, by setting them thus 
asunder, they bestowed some special importance upon them; and 
required us, in going along, to make a pause at every other word, 
and weigh it well. This, I think, may be called a typographical 
figure of speech. Neither, indeed, since we have been led to men¬ 
tion the arts of writers for increasing the importance of their words, 
does another custom, which prevailed very much some time ago, 
seem worthy of imitation ; I mean that of distinguishing the signifi¬ 
cant words, in every sentence, by italic characters. On some occa¬ 
sions, it is very proper to use such distinctions. But when we carry 
them so far, as to mark with them every supposed emphatical word, 
these words are apt to multiply so fast in the author’s imagination, 
that every page is crowded with italics; which can produce no effect 
whatever, but to hurt the eye, and create confusion. Indeed, if the 
sense point not out the most emphatical expressions, a variation in 
the type, especially when occurring so frequently, will give small aid. 
And, accordingly, the most masterly writers, of late, have with 
good reason laid aside all those feeble props of signifieancy, and 
trusted wholly to the weight of their sentiments for commanding 
attention. But to return from this degression. 

Another figure of speech, proper only to animated and warm 
composition, is what some critical writers call vision; when, in 
place of relating something that is past, we use the present tense, and 
describe it as actually passing before our eyes. Thus Cicero, in his 
fourth oration against Catiline. 6 Videor enim mihi hanc urbem 
videre, lucem orbis terrarum atque arcem omnium gentium, subito 
uno incendio concidentem ; cerno animo sepulta in patria miseros 
atque insepultos acervos civium; versatur mihi ante oculos aspectus 
Cethegi, et furor, in vestra csede bacchantis.’* This manner of des- 

* ‘1 seem to myself to behold this city, the orament of the earth, and the capital of 

all nations, suddenly involved in one conflagration. I see before me the slaughtered 
heaps of citizens lying unburied in the midst of their ruined country. The furious 
countenance of Cethegus rises to my view, while with a savage joy he is triumphing 
in your miseries.’ 



LECT. XVII.] 


AMPLIFICATION. 


191 


cription supposes a sort of enthusiasm which carries the person who 
describes it in some measure out of himself; and when well execu¬ 
ted, must needs impress the reader or hearer strongly, by the force 
of that sympathy which I have before explained. But, in order 
to a successful execution, it requires an uncommonly warm imagi¬ 
nation, and such a happy selection of circumstances, as shall make 
us think we see before our eyes the scene that is described. Other¬ 
wise, it shares the same fate with all feeble attempts towards pas¬ 
sionate figures; that of throwing ridicule upon the author, and leav¬ 
ing the reader more cool and uninterested than he was before. The 
same observations are to be applied to Repetition, Suspension, Cor¬ 
rection, and many more of those figurative forms of speech, which 
rhetoricians have enumerated among the beauties of eloquence. 
They are beautiful, or not, exactly in proportion as they are na¬ 
tive expressions of the sentiment or passion intended to be height¬ 
ened by them. Let nature and passion always speak their own 
language, and they will suggest figures in abundance. But when 
we seek to counterfeit a warmth which we do not feel, no figures 
will either supply the defect, or conceal the imposture. 

There is one figure (and 1 shall mention no more) of frequent use 
among all public speakers, particularly at the bar, which Quintilian 
insists upon considerably, and calls amplification. It consists in an 
artful exaggeration of all the circumstances of some objector action 
which we want to place in a strong light, either a good or a bad one. 
It is not so properly one figure, as the skilful management of several 
which we make to tend to one point. It may be carried on by a 
proper use of magnifying or extenuating terms, by a regular enu¬ 
meration of particulars, or by throwing together, as into one mass, 
a crowd of circumstances; by suggesting comparisons also with 
things of a like nature. But the principal instrument by which it 
works, is by a climax, or a gradual rise of one circumstance above 
another, till our ideas be raised to the utmost. I spoke formerly of 
a climax in sound; a climax in sense, when well carried on, is a figure 
which never fails to amplify strongly. The common example 
of this, is that noted passage in Cicero, which every school-boy 
knows: ‘Facinusest vincire civem Romanum; scelus verberare, 
prope parricidium, necare; quid dicam in crucem tollere?* ** I shall 
give an instance from a printed pleading of a famous Scotch lawyer, 
Sir George M‘Kenzie. It is in a charge to the jury, in the case of 
a woman accused of murdering her own child. £ Gentlemen, if one 
man had any how slain another, if an adversary had killed his op- 
poser, or a woman occasioned the death of her enemy, even these 
criminals would have been capitally punished by the Cornelian law: 
but, if this guiltless infant, who could make no enemy, had been 
murdered by its own nurse, what punishments would not then th e 
mother have demanded ? With what cries and exclamations wou ld 


* < It is a crime to put a Roman citizen in bonds ; it is the height of guilt to scourge 
him ; little less than parricide to put him to death. What name then shall I give to 

crucifying him ?’ 



192 


AMPLIFICATION. 


[lect. xvn. 


she have stunned your ears ? What shall we say, then, when a wo¬ 
man, guilty of homicide, a mother, of the murder of her innocent 
child, hath comprised all those misdeeds in one single crime ; a 
crime, in its own nature detestable ; in a woman, prodigious ; in a 
mother, incredible; and perpetrated against one whose age called 
for compassion, whose near relation claimed affection, and whose in¬ 
nocence deserved the highest favour.’ I must take notice, however, 
that such regular climaxes as these, though they have considerable 
beauty, have, at the same time, no small appearance of art and 
study ; and, therefore, though they may be admitted into formal 
harangues, yet they speak not the language of great earnestness 
and passion, which seldom proceed by steps so regular. Nor, 
indeed, for the purposes of effectual persuasion, are they likely to be 
so successful, as an arrangement of circumstances in a less artificial 
order. For when much art appears, we are always put on our 
guard against the deceits of eloquence ; but when a speaker has rea¬ 
soned strongly, and, by force of argument, has made good his main 
point, he may then, taking advantage of the favourable bent of our 
minds, make use of such artificial figures to confirm our belief, and 
to warm our minds. 


QUESTIONS. 


With what are we still engaged; 
and why do they require a careful dis¬ 
cussion ? Why does our author select 
only the capital figures for discussion ? 
What figures have already been dis¬ 
cussed ? With what does our author 
begin ; and what is said of it ? In a 
former lecture, what was fully explain¬ 
ed ? What is a metaphor; and how is 
this illustrated? What is a compari¬ 
son ; and what example is given ? 
What will this slight instance show ? 
What is remarked of the pleasure 
which we take in comparison; and 
how many sources of it shall we no¬ 
tice ? What is the first source ? How 
does it appear that this operation of the 
mind is naturally and universally 
agreeable ? What is the second source 
whence this pleasure arises ? And 
what is the third? Under what two 
heads may all comparisons whatever 
be reduced; and why? How exten¬ 
sively may explaining comparisons be 
used ? How is this remark illustrated; 
and what example is given ? In com¬ 
parisons of this nature, what faculty is 
most employed; and, therefore, what 
are the only rules to be observed in 
them? Of embellishing comparisons, 
what is here observed ? What was be¬ 
fore mentioned as the foundation of this 
figure ? Why must we not, however,' 


take resemblance in too strict a sense 
for actual similitude and likeness of 
appearance ? What example to il¬ 
lustrate this, is given from Ossian ? Of 
this, what is observed; yet what fol¬ 
lows? How might the likeness have 
been rendered more. strict ? But, by 
founding his simile on the effect which 
Carryl’s music produced, what does 
he give us ? In general, what is the 
fundamental requisite of a compari¬ 
son ? In pursuing the simile, what may 
be permitted; but from what must they 
never deviate ? What remark follows ? 
But, to be a little more particular, what 
two articles do the rules to be given 
concerning comparisons, respect ? From 
what has already been said of compa¬ 
risons, what appears? Of what are 
they the language ? Why is strong pas¬ 
sion too severe to admit this play of 
fancy ? What, therefore, is one of the 
greatest faults that an author can com¬ 
mit? Of metaphorical expressions in 
such a situation, what is observed? 
But what is altogether a stranger to 
passion ; and why ? What writers are 
very apt to err here; and what indi¬ 
viduals are mentioned ? In Mr. Addi¬ 
son’s Cato, what instance is mentioned ? 
Repeat the passage. Of what must 
every one here be sensible ? However, 

' as comparison is not the style of strong 








LECT. XVII.] 


QUESTIONS. 


192 a 


passion, what follows ? It is a figure of 
what kind; what does it require ; and 
why ? Where does the proper place of 
comparison lie ? Of this field, what is 
observed ? But even here, of what must 
we take care ; and why ? Even in poe¬ 
try, how should similes be used; and 
why with much more in prose? To 
what does our author next proceed? 
In the first place, from what object 
should they not be drawn ; and why ? 
In pointing out what, is there little art 
or ingenuity ? What illustrations of 
these remarks are given from Milton ? 
Among similes, faulty through too 
great obviousness of the likeness, we 
must likewise rank those taken from 
what objects? What examples are 
given; and what writers use them ? 
In whom had these comparisons beau¬ 
ty ; and why ? At present, what is 
their effect; and what remark follows ? 
What is the difference, in this respect, 
between a mere versifier, and an au¬ 
thor of real fancy ? From what objects, 
in the second place, ought not compari¬ 
sons to be drawn; and why not ? 
What is also to be observed? What 
practice is directly opposite to the de¬ 
sign of this figure ? This is what au¬ 
thor’s common fault; and of his com¬ 
parisons, generally, what is observed ? 
In the third place, from what objects 
should comparisons never be drawn ? 
W r hat says Quintilian on this subject ? 
What comparisons, therefore, attain 
not their proper effect ? From what 
objects should they be taken? This 
leads our author to remark what fault ? 
Whence did the ancients take their simi¬ 
les ; and hence, what follows ? Of the 
adoption of these images by the mo¬ 
dems, what is observed ? How is this 
remark illustrated ? Every country has 
what; and what follows ? In the fourth 
place, what only has our author to ob¬ 
serve ? Why should they not? Whose 
comparisons have been taxed on this 
account; but why without reason ? 
What remark follows? 

What figures has our author now 
considered ? Of those that remain to 
be mentioned, what is observed ? What 
is the difference between comparison 
and antithesis? Contrast has always 
what effect; and what instance is 
given? For what purpose, therefore, 
may antithesis be employed, on many 
occasions, to advantage ? Thus Cicero, 
in his oration for Milo, makes what re¬ 


presentation ? Repeat the passage. In 
order to render an antithesis more com¬ 
plete, what is always of advantage? 
How does this lead us the more to re¬ 
mark the contrast ? Their resemblance 
to each other, in certain circumstances, 
produces what effect ? At the same 
time, on the frequent use of the anti¬ 
thesis, what is observed? What sen¬ 
tences from Seneca are here intro¬ 
duced ? Why does a maxim, or moral 
saying, properly receive this form ? 
But when is an author’s style faulty? 
How does such a style appear; and 
what impression does it give us ? Of Dr- 
Young, what is here observed ; and 
from his writings, what instances of 
this are given ? Of this style, what is 
observed; and by what are we fa¬ 
tigued ? What other sort of antithesis 
is there? In it, what maybe shown; 
but to what only does it belong ? What 
instance of happy antithesis is here intro¬ 
duced from Mr. Pope ? In what does 
the point of an epigram principally 
consist? Comparisons and antitheses 
are figures of what nature; and of 
what are they the productions ? What 
kind of figures are interrogations and 
exclamations ? Why is their use ex¬ 
tremely frequent; and where do they 
prevail as much as in the most sublime 
oratory ? What is the literal use of in¬ 
terrogation ; and when is it used as a 
figurative expression ? What is there¬ 
by expressed; and what appeal is 
made? What example is given from 
the scriptures ? What example is also 
given from Demosthenes’ address to 
the Athenians? What is said of it? 
When may interrogations often be ap¬ 
plied with propriety ? But to what only 
do exclamations belong ? By means of 
what do all passionate figures of speech 
operate upon us; and of it, what is 
observed ? Hence, by a single person, 
what effect may be produced; and 
what effect does it also produce on a 
great crowd ? When interrogations and 
exclamations are properly used, to 
what do they dispose us; and why? 
From this, what follows ? With inter¬ 
rogations, what may he use; and why? 
But with respect to exclamations, why 
must he be more reserved ? What do 
juvenile writers imagine ? But what is 
their effect ? How is this illustrated; 
and hence, what is our author inclined 
to think ? What remark follows ? Why 
is this the case ? What other. contn- 




192 6 QUESTIONS. 


vance, which is much akin to this, is 
practised by some writers ? What may 
this be called? What other custom, 
which prevailed some time ago, is un¬ 
worthy of imitation ? Though on some 
occasions they may be very proper, 
yet, to what danger are we exposed by 
carrying them too far? If the sense 
point not out the most emphatical ex¬ 
pressions, what will give but little as¬ 
sistance ; and accordingly, what course 
have the most masterly writers latterly 
pursued? What is the next figure of 
speech mentioned ; what is meant by 
it; and when only should it be used ? 
What example is given from Cicero ? 
What does this manner of description 
suppose; and when well executed, 
what is its effect ? But, in order to a 
successful examination of it, what does 
it require ? Otherwise, what fate will 
it share? To what other figures of 
speech are the same observations 
applicable; and in what proportion 
are they beautiful ? What remark fol¬ 
lows ? What is the last figure of speech 
mentioned; and in what does it con¬ 
sist ? Of it, what is observed; and how 


[lect. XVII 

may it be carried on ? What is the prin¬ 
cipal instrument by which it works ? 
What is the effect of climax in sense, 
when well carried on? What example 
is given from Cicero ? What one from 
a pleading of Sir George M‘Kenzie ? 
Of what must our author take notice, 
relative to such regular climaxes ; and 
why? 

ANALYSIS. 

1. Comparison. 

a. Explaining comparisons. 

b. Embellishing comparisons. 

Rules concerning comparisons. 

a. Obvionsnessof resemblance should 
be avoided. 

b. The likeness should not be too re¬ 
mote. 

c. They should not be drawn from 
unknown objects. 

d. They should not be taken from 
low or mean objects. 

2. Antithesis. 

3. Interrogation. 

4. Exclamation. 

5. Vision. 

6. Amplification. 


LECTURE XVIII. 

FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE.—GENERAL CHARACTERS 
OF STYLE—DIFFUSE, CONCISE, FEEBLE, NER¬ 
VOUS.—DRY, PLAIN, NEAT, ELEGANT, FLOWERY. 
Having treated at considerable length of the figures of speech, 
of their origin, of their nature, and of the management of such of 
them as are important enough to require a particular discussion, be¬ 
fore finally dismissing this subject, I think it incumbent on me to 
make some observations concerning the proper use of figurative lan¬ 
guage in general. These, indeed, I have, in part, already antici¬ 
pated. But as great errors are often committed in this part of style, 
especially by young writers, it may be of use that I bring together, 
under one view, the most material directions on this head. 

I begin with repeating an observation, formerly made, that neither 
all the beauties, nor even the chief beauties of composition, depend 
upon tropes and figures. Some of the most sublime and most pathe¬ 
tic passages of the most admired authors, both in prose and poetry, 
are expressed in the most simple style, without any figure at all; in¬ 
stances of which I have before given. On the other hand, a compo¬ 
sition may abound with these studied ornaments ; the language may 
be artful, splendid, and highly figured, and vet the composition be 
on the whole frigid and unaffecting. Not to speak of sentiment and 
thought, which constitute the real and lasting merit of any work, if 
the style be stiff and affected, if it be deficient in perspicuity or pre~ 







lect. xvtii.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 


193 


cision, or in ease and neatness, all the figures that can be employed 
will never render it agreeable: they may dazzle a vulgar, but will 
never please a judicious eye. 

In the second place, figures, in order to be beautiful, must always 
rise naturally from the subject. I have shown that all of them are 
the language either of imagination, or of passion; some of them 
suggested by imagination, when it is awakened and sprightly, such 
as metaphors and comparisons; others by passion or more heated 
emotion, such as personifications and apostrophes. Of course, they 
are beautiful then only, when they are prompted by fancy, or by 
passion. They must rise of their own accord; they must flow 
from a mind warmed by the object which it seeks to describe; we 
should never interrupt the course of thought to cast about for figures. 
If they be sought after coolly, and fastened on as designed ornaments, 
the)’’ will have a miserable effect. It is a very erroneous idea, 
which many have of the ornaments of style, as if they were things 
detached from the subject, and that could be stuck to it, like lace 
upon a coat: this is indeed, 

Purpureus late qtji splendeat unus aut alter 

Assuitur pannus.*- Ars Poet. 

And it is this false idea which has often brought attention to the 
beauties of writing into disrepute. Whereas, the real and proper 
ornaments of style arise from sentiment. They flow in the 
same stream with the current of thought. A writer of genius 
conceives his subject strongly; his imagination is filled and im¬ 
pressed with it; and pours itself forth, in that figurative language 
which imagination naturally speaks. He puts on no emotion which 
his subject does not raise in him; he speaks as he feels; but his 
style will be beautiful, because his feelings are lively. On occasions, 
when fancy is languid, or finds nothing to rouse it, we should never 
attempt to hunt for figures. We then work, as it is said, ‘invita 
Minerva;’ supposing figures invented, they will have the appearance 
of being forced: and in this case, they had much better be omit¬ 
ted. 

In the third place, even when imagination prompts, and the sub¬ 
ject naturally gives rise to figures, they must, however, not be em¬ 
ployed too frequently. In all beauty, ‘simplex munditiis,’ is a capi¬ 
tal quality. Nothing derogates more from the weight and dig¬ 
nity of any composition, than too great attention to ornament. 
When the ornaments cost labour, that labour always appears; though 
they should cost us none, still the reader or hearer may be surfeited 
with them ; and when they come too thick, they give the impression 
of a light and frothy genius, that evaporates in show, rather than 
brings forth what is solid. The directions of the ancient critics, on 
this head, are full of good sense, and deserve careful attention. 
e Voluptatibus maximis,’ says Cicero, de Orat. 1. iii. ‘fastidium fin- 
itimum est in rebus omnibus; quo hoc minus in oratione miremur. 

* ‘ Shreds of purple with broad lustre shioe, 

‘ Sew’d on vour poem.’ FlU.tfCJ?* 

3F 


23 



FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 


[lect. XVIII. 


m 

In qua vel ex poetis, vel oratoribus possumus judicare, concinnam, 
ornatam, festivam, sine intermissione quamvis claris sit coloribus 
picta, vel poesis, vel oratio, non posse in delectatione esse diutur- 
na. Quare, bene et prseclare, quamvis nobis ssepe dicatur, belle 
ct festive nimium saepe nolo/* To the same purpose are the excel* 
lentdirections with which Quintilian concludeshis discourse concern¬ 
ing figures, 1. ix. c. 3. ‘Ego illud de iis figuris quae vere fiunt, 
adjiciam breviter, sicutornant orationem opportunae positae, ita inep- 
tissimas esse cum immodice petuntur. Sunt, qui neglecto rerum 
pondere et viribus sententiarum, si vel inania verba in hos modos de- 
pravarunt, summos se judicant artifices: ideoque non desinunt eas 
nectere; quas sine sententia sectare, tarn est ridiculum quam 
quaerere habitum gestumque sine corpore. Ne hae quidem quae rec- 
tae fiunt, densandae sunt nimis. Sciendum imprimis quid quisque 
postulet locus, quid persona, quid tempus. Major enim pars harum 
figurarum posita est in delectatione. Ubi vero, atrocitate, invidia, 
miseratione pugnandum est; quis ferat verbis contrapositis, et con- 
similibus et pariter cadentibus, irascentem, flentem, rogantem? 
Cum in his rebus, cura verborum deroget aflfectibus fidem; et 
ubicunque ars ostentatur, veritas abesse videatur/t After these ju¬ 
dicious and useful observations, I have no more to add, on this 
subject, except this admonition: 

In the fourth place, that, without a genius for figurative language, 
none should attempt it. Imagination is a power not to be acquired; 
it must be derived from nature. Its redundancies we may prune, its 
deviations we may correct, its sphere we may enlarge; but the fa¬ 
culty itself we cannot create: but all efforts towards a metaphorical 
ornamented style, if we are destitute of the proper genius for it, will 
prove awkward and disgusting. Let us satisfy ourselves, however, 
by considering, that without this talent, or at least with a very small 
measure of it, we may both write and speak to advantage. Good 

* ‘In all human things, disgust borders so nearly on the most lively pleasures, 
that we need not be surprised to find this hold in eloquence. From reading either 
poets or orators we may easily satisfy ourselves, that neither a poem nor an ora¬ 
tion, which, without intermission, is showy and sparkling, can please us long. 
Wherefore, though we may wish for the frequent praise of having expressed our¬ 
selves well and properly, we should not covet repeated applause, for being bright 
and splendid.’ 

f ‘ I must add, concerning those figures which are proper in themselves, 
that, as they beautify a composition when they are seasonably introduced, so they 
deform it greatly, if too frequently sought after. There are some who, neglecting 
strength of sentiment and weight of matter, if they can only force their empty 
words into a figurative style, imagine themselves great writers; and therefore con¬ 
tinually string together such ornaments; whicli is just as ridiculous, where there 
is no sentiment to support them, as to contrive gestures and dresses for what wants 
a body. Even those figures which a subject admits, must not come too thick. 
We must begin with considering what the occasion, the time, and the person who 
speaks render proper. For the object aimed at bv the greater part of these 
figures is entertainment. But when the subject becomes deeply serious, and 
strong passions are to be moved, who can bear the orator, who, in affected lan¬ 
guage and balanced phrases, endeavours to express wrath, commiseration, or 
earnest entreaty ? On all such occasions, a solicitous attention to words weakens 
passion; and when so much art is shown, there is suspected to be little sin¬ 
cerity.’ 



lect. xvm.J GENERAL CHARACTERS OF STYLE. 


195 


sense, clear ideas, perspicuity of language, and proper arrangement 
of words and thoughts, will always command attention. These are 
indeed the foundations of all solid merit, both in speaking and wri¬ 
ting. Many subjects require nothing more; and those which admit 
of ornament, admit it only as a secondary requisite. To study and 
to know our own genius well; to follow nature ; to seek to improve, 
but not to force it, are directions which cannot be too often given 
to those who desire to excel in the liberal arts. 

When I entered upon the consideration of style, I observed that 
words being the copies of our ideas, there must always be a very in¬ 
timate connexion between the manner in which every writer em¬ 
ploys words, and his manner of thinking; and that from the pecu¬ 
liarity of thought and expression which belongs to him, there is a 
certain character imprinted on his style, which may be denominated 
his manner; commonly expressed by such general terms, as strong, 
weak, dry, simple, affected, or the like. These distinctions carry, in 
general, some reference to an author’s manner of thinking, but re¬ 
fer chiefly to his mode of expression. They arise from the whole 
tenour of his language; and comprehend the effect produced by all 
those parts of style which we have already considered; the choice 
which he makes of single words ; his arrangement of these in sen¬ 
tences; the degree of his precision; and his embellishment, by 
means of musical cadence, figures, or other arts of speech. Of 
such general characters of style, therefore, it remains now to 
speak as the result of those underparts of which I have hitherto 
treated. 

That different subjects require to be treated of in different sorts of 
style, is a position so obvious, that I shall not stay to illustrate it. 
Every one sees that treatises of philosophy, for instance, ought not 
to be composed in the same style with orations. Everyone sees also, 
that different parts of the same composition require a variation in 
the style and manner. In a sermon, for instance, or any harangue, 
the application or peroration admits more ornament and requires 
more warmth, than the didactic part. But what I mean at present 
to remark is, that amidst this variety, we still expect to find in the 
compositions of any one man, some degree of uniformity or consist¬ 
ency with himself in manner; we expect to find some predominant 
character of style impressed on all his writings, which shalhbe suit¬ 
ed to, and shall mark his particular genius and turn of mind. The 
oration^in Livy differ much in style, as they ought to do, from the 
rest of his history. The same is the case with those in Tacitus. Yet 
both in Livy’s orations, and in those of Tacitus, we are able clearly 
to trace the distinguishing manner of each historian; the magnifi¬ 
cent fullness of the one, and the sententious conciseness of the other. 
The ( Letters Persanes,’ and 4 L’Esprit des Loix,’ are the works of the 
same author. They required very different compositions surely, and 
accordingly they differ widely; yet still we see the same hand. 
Wherever there is real and native genius, it gives a determination to 
one kind of style rather than another. Where nothing of this ap¬ 
pears ; where there is no marked nor peculiar character in the eom« 


196 


CONCISE AND 


[lect. XVIII, 


positions of any author, we are apt to infer, not without reason, that 
he is a vulgar and trivial author, who writes from imitation, and not 
from the impulse of original genius. As the most celebrated paint¬ 
ers are known by their hand, so the best and most original writers 
are known and distinguished, throughout all their works, by their 
style and peculiar manner. This will be found to hold almost with¬ 
out exception. 

The ancient critics attended to these general characters of style 
which we are now to consider. Dionysius of Halicarnassus divides 
them into three kinds; and calls them the austere, the florid, and the 
middle. By the austere, he means a style distinguished for strength 
and firmness, with a neglect of smoothness and ornament; for ex¬ 
amples of which, he gives Pindar and iEschylus among the poets, 
and Thucydides among the prose writers. By the florid, he means, 
as the name indicates, a style ornamented, flowing, and sweet; rest¬ 
ing more upon numbers and grace, than strength ; he instances He¬ 
siod, Sappho, Anacreon, Euripides, and principally Isocrates. The 
middle kind is the just mean between these, and comprehends the 
beauties of both; in which class he places Homer and Sophocles 
among the poets; in prose, Herodotus, Demosthenes, Plato, and 
(what seems strange) Aristotle. This must be a very wide class, in¬ 
deed, which comprehends Plato and Aristotle under one article as to 
style.* Cicero and Quintilian make also a threefold division of 
style, though with respect to different qualities of it; in which they 
are followed by most of the modern writers on rhetoric: the 
simplex , tenue or subtle ; th z grave ovvehemens; and the medium or 
temperatum genus dicendi. But these divisions, and the illustra¬ 
tions they give of them, are so loose and general, that they cannot 
advance us much in our ideas of style. I shall endeavour to be a 
little more particular in what I have to say on this subject. 

One of the first and most obvious distinctions of the different kinds 
of style, is what arises from an author’s spreading out his thoughts 
more or less. This distinction forms what are called the diffuse 
and the concise styles. A concise writer compresses his thoughts 
into the fewest possible words ; he seeks to employ none but such as 
are most expressive; he lops off as redundant, every expression 
which does not add something material to the sense. Ornament he 
does not reject; he may be lively and figured; but his ornament is 
intended for the sake of force, rather than grace. He never gives 
you the same thought twice. He places it in the light which appears 
to him the most striking; but if you do not apprehend it well in that 
light, you need not expect to find it in any other. His sentences are 
arranged with compactness and strength, rather than with cadence 
and harmony. The utmost precision is studied in them; and they 
are commonly designed to suggest more to the reader’s imagination 
than they directly express. 

A diffuse writer unfolds his thought fully. He places it in a variety 
oflights, and gives the reader every possible assistance for understand- 


* De Compositione Verborum, cap, 25. 



LECT. XVIII.] 


DIFFUSE STYLE. 


197 


ing it completely. He is not very careful to express it at first in its 
full strength, because he is to repeat the impression; and what he 
wants in strength, he proposes to supply by copiousness. Writers of 
this character generally love magnificence and amplification. Their 
periods naturally run out into some length, and having room for orna¬ 
ment of every kind, they admit it freely. 

Each of these manners has its peculiar advantages; and each 
becomes faulty when carried to the extreme. The extreme of 
conciseness becomes abrupt and obscure; it is apt also to lead into 
a style too pointed, and bordering on the epigrammatic. The ex¬ 
treme of diffuseness becomes weak and languid, and tires the reader. 
However, to one or other of these two manners, a writer may lean 
according as his genius prompts him; and under the general cha¬ 
racter of a concise, or of a more open and diffuse style, may pos¬ 
sess much beauty in his composition. 

For illustrations of these general characters, I can only refer to 
the writers who are examples of them. It is not so much from 
detached passages, such as I was wont formerly to quote for instan¬ 
ces, as from the current of an author’s style, that we are to collect 
the idea of a formed manner of writing. The two most remarkable 
examples that I know, of conciseness carried as far as propriety' 
will allow, perhaps in some cases farther, are Tacitus the historian, 
and the President Montesquieu in ‘L’Espritde Loix.’ Aristotle 
too holds an eminent rank among didactic writers for his brevity. 
Perhaps no writer in the world was ever so frugal of his words as 
Aristotle; but this frugality of expression frequently darkens his 
meaning. Of a beautiful and magnificent diffuseness, Cicero is, be¬ 
yond doubt, the most illustrious instance that can be given. Ad¬ 
dison also, and Sir William Temple, come in some degree under 
this class. 

In judging when it is proper to lean to the concise, and when 
to the diffuse manner, we must be directed by the nature of the 
composition. Discourses that are to be spoken, require a more 
copious style, than books that are to be read. When the whole 
meaning must be catched from the mouth of the speaker, without 
the advantage which books afford of pausing at pleasure, and re¬ 
viewing what appears obscure, great conciseness is always to be 
avoided. We should never presume too much on the quickness of our 
hearer’s understanding; but our style ought to be such, that the bulk 
of men can go along with us easily, and without effort. A flowing co¬ 
pious style, therefore, is required in all public speakers; guarding, 
at the same time, against such a degree of diffusion, as renders 
them languid and tiresome; which will always prove the case, when 
they inculcate too much, and present the same thought under too 
many different views. 

In written compositions, a certain degree of conciseness posses¬ 
ses great advantages. It is more lively; keeps up attention ; makes 
a brisker and stronger impression; and gratifies the mind by supply¬ 
ing more exercise to a reader’s own thought. A sentiment, which, 


198 CONCISE AND DIFFUSE STYLE, [lect. xvirr, 

expressed diffusely, will barely be admitted to be just; expressed 
concisely, will be admired as spirited. Description, when we want 
to have it vivid and animated, should be in a concise strain. This 
is different from the common opinion; most persons being ready to 
suppose, that upon description a writer may dwell more safely than 
upon other things, and that by a full and extended style, it is render¬ 
ed more rich and expressive. 1 apprehend, on the contrary, that 
a diffuse manner generally weakens it. Any redundant words or 
circumstances encumber the fancy, and make the object we pre¬ 
sent to it, appear confused and indistinct. Accordingly, the most 
masterly describers, Homer, Tacitus, Milton, are almost always 
concise in their descriptions. They show us more of an object at 
one glance, than a feeble diffuse writer can show, by turning it 
round and round in a variety of lights. The strength and vivacity 
of description, whether in prose or poetry, depend much more upon 
the happy choice of one or two striking circumstances,than upon the 
multiplication of them. 

Addresses to the passions, likewise, ought to be in the concise, 
rather than in the diffuse manner. In these it is dangerous to be dif¬ 
fuse, because it is very difficult to support proper warmth for any 
length of time. When we become prolix, we are always in hazard 
of cooling the reader. The heart, too, and the fancy, run fast; 
and if once we can put them in motion, they supply many par¬ 
ticulars to greater advantage than an author can display them. 
The case is different when we address ourselves to the understand¬ 
ing; as in all matters of reasoning, explication, and instruction. 
There I would prefer a more free and diffuse manner. When you 
are to strike the fancy, or to move the heart, be concise; when you 
are to inform the understanding, which moves more slowly, and re¬ 
quires^ the assistance of a guide, it is better to be full. Historical 
narration may be beautiful, either in a concise or a diffuse manner, 
according to the writer’s genius. Livy and Herodotus are diffuse; 
Thucydides and Sallust are succinct; yet all of them are agreeable. 

I observed that a diffuse style generally abounds in long periods; and 
a concise writer, it is certain, will often employ short sentences. 
It is not, however, to be inferred from this, that long or short sen¬ 
tences are fully characteristical of the one or the other manner. It 
is very possible fox one to compose always in short sentences, and to 
be withal extremely diffuse, if a small measure of sentiment he 
spread through many of these sentences. Seneca is a remarkable 
example. By the shortness and quaintness of his sentences he 
may appear at first view very concise ; yet he is far from being so. 
He transfigures the same thought into many different forms. He 
makes it pass for a new one, only by giving it a new turn. So also 
most of the French writers compose in short sentences, though their 
style in general is not concise; commonly less so than the bulk of 
English writers, whose sentences are much longer. A French au¬ 
thor breaks down into two or three sentences, that portion of thought 
which an English author crowds into one. The direct effect of short 


199 


lect. xyiii.] NERVOUS, DRY, AND FEEBLE. 

sentences, is to render the style brisk and lively, but not always con¬ 
cise. By the quick successive impulses which they make on the 
mind, they keep it awake; and give to composition more of a 
spirited character. Long periods, like Lord Clarendon’s, are grave 
and stately; but like all grave things, they are in hazard of be¬ 
coming dull. An intermixture of long and short ones is requisite, 
when we would support solemnity, together with vivacity, leaning 
more to the one or the other, according as propriety requires that 
the solemn or the sprightly should be predominant in our composi¬ 
tion. But of long and short sentences, I had occasion formerly to 
treat, under the head of the construction of periods. 

The nervous and the feeble, are generally held to be characters 
of style, of the same import with the concise and the diffuse. They 
do indeed very often coincide. Diffuse writers have, for the most 
part, some degree of feebleness; and nervous writers will generally 
be inclined to a concise expression. This, however, does not al¬ 
ways hold ; and there are instances of writers, who, in the midst of 
a full and ample style, have maintained a great degree of strength. 
Livy is an example; and in the English language Dr. Barrow. 
Barrow’s style has many faults. It is unequal, incorrect, and redun¬ 
dant; but withal, for force and expressiveness, uncommonly distin¬ 
guished. On every subject, he multiplies words with an overflow¬ 
ing copiousness : but it is always a torrent of strong ideas and signi¬ 
ficant expressions which he pours forth. Indeed, the foundations of 
a nervous or a weak style are laid in an author’s manner of thinking. 
If he conceives an object strongly, he will express it with energy; 
but if he has only an indistinct view of his subject; if his ideas be 
loose and wavering; if his genius be such, or, at the time of his wri¬ 
ting, so carelessly exerted, that he has no firm hold of the concep¬ 
tion which he would communicate to us; the marks of all this will 
clearly appear in his style. Several unmeaning words and loose epi¬ 
thets will be found: his expressions will be vague and general; his 
arrangement indistinct and feeble; we shall conceive somewhat of 
his meaning, but our conception will be faint. Whereas a nervous 
writer, whether he employs an extended or a concise style, gives us 
always a strong impression of his meaning; his mind is full of his 
subject, and his words are all expressive; every phrase and every 
figure which he uses, tends to render the picture, which he would 
set before us, more lively and complete. 

I observed under the head of diffuse and concise style, that an 
author might lean either to the one or to the other, and yet be beau¬ 
tiful. This is not the case with respect to the nervous and the feeble. 
Every author, in every composition, ought to study to express him¬ 
self vvith some strength, and, in proportion as he approaches to the 
feeble, he becomes a bad writer. In all kinds of writing, however, 
the same degree of strength is not demanded. But the more grave 
and weighty any composition is, the more should a character of 
strength predominate in the style. Hence in history, philosophy, 
and solemn discourses, it is expected most. One of the most com¬ 
plete models of a nervous style, is Demosthenes in his orations. 


200 


NERVOUS AND FEEBLE STYLE, [lect. xvin. 


As every good quality in style has an extreme, when pursued to 
which it becomes faulty, this holds of the nervous style as well as 
others. Too great a study of strength, to the neglect of the other 
qualities of style, is found to betray writers into a harsh manner. 
Harshness arises from unusual words, from forced inversions in the 
construction of a sentence, and too much neglect of smoothness and 
ease. This is reckoned the fault of some of our earliest classics in 
the English language; such as Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Francis Ba¬ 
con, Hooker, Chillingworth, Milton in his prose works, Harrington, 
Cud worth, and other writers of considerable note in the days ol 
Queen Elizabeth, James I. and Charles I. These writers had nerves 
and strength in a high degree, and are to this day eminent for that 
quality in style. But the language in their hands was exceedingly 
different from what it is now, and was indeed entirely formed upon 
the idiom and construction of the Latin in the arrangement of sen¬ 
tences. Hooker, for instance, begins the preface to his celebrated 
work of Ecclesiastical Polity, with the following sentence: * Though 
for no other cause, yet for this, that posterity may know we have 
not loosely, through silence, permitted things to pass away as in a 
dream, there shall be, for men’s information, extant this much, con¬ 
cerning the present state of the church of God established amongst 
us, and their careful endeavours which would have upheld the same.' 
Such a sentence now sounds harsh in our ears. Yet some advan¬ 
tages certainly attended this sort of style; and whether we have 
gained or lost, upon the whole, by departing from it, may bear 
a question. By the freedom of arrangement which it permitted, 
it rendered the language susceptible of more strength, of more 
variety of collocation, and more harmony of period. But however 
this be, such a style is now obsolete; and no modern writer 
could adopt it without the censure of harshness and affectation. 
The present form which the language has assumed, has, in some 
measure, sacrificed the study of strength to that of perspicuity 
and ease. Our arrangement of words has become less forcible, 
perhaps, but more plain and natural: and this is now understood to 
be the genius of our language. 

The restoration of King Charles II. seems to be the sera of the 
formation of our present style. Lord Clarendon was one of the first 
who laid aside those frequent inversions which prevailed among 
writers of the former age. After him, Sir William Temple polished 
the language still more. But the author, who by the number and re¬ 
putation of his works, formed it more than any one, into its present 
state, is Dryden. Dryden began to write at the restoration, and 
continued long an author both in poetry and prose. He had made 
the language his study; and though he wrote hastily, and often in¬ 
correctly, and his style is not free from faults, yet there is a richness 
in his diction, a copiousness, ease, and variety in his expression, 
which has not been surpassed by any who have come after him.* 

* Dr. Johnson, in his life of Dryden, gives the following character of his prose 
style: { His prefaces have not the formality of a settled style, in which the first 
half of the sentence betrays the other. The clauses are never balanced, nor the 



201 


X.ECT. xviii.] DRY AND PLAIN STYLE. 

Since his time, considerable attention has been paid to purity and 
elegance of style: but it is elegance, rather than strength, that forms 
the distinguishing quality of most of the good English writers. 
Some of them compose in a more manly and nervous manner than 
others; but, whether it be from the genius of our language, or from 
whatever other cause, it appears to me, that we are far from the 
strength of several of the Greek and Roman authors. 

Hitherto we have considered style under those characters that 
respect its expressiveness of an author’s meaning. Let us now pro¬ 
ceed to consider it in another view; with respect to the degree of 
ornament employed to beautify it Here, the style of different 
authors seems to rise, in the following gradation; a dry, a plain, a 
neat, an elegant, a flowery manner. Of each of these in their order : 

First, a dry manner. This excludes all ornament of every kind. 
Content with being understood, it has not the least aim to please 
either the fancy or the ear. This is tolerable only in pure didactic 
writing; and even there, to make us bear it, great weight and solidi¬ 
ty of matter is requisite, and entire perspicuity of language. Aris¬ 
totle is the complete example of a dry style. Never, perhaps, was 
there any author who adhered so rigidly to the strictness of a didac¬ 
tic manner, throughout all his writings, and conveyed so much in¬ 
struction without the least approach to ornament. With the most 
profound genius, and extensive views, he writes like a pure intelli¬ 
gence, who addresses himself solely to the understanding, without 
making any use of the channel of the imagination. But this is a 
manner which deserves not to be imitated. For, although the 
goodness of the matter may compensate the dryness or harshness of 
the style, yet is that dryness a considerable defect; as it fatigues 
attention, and conveys our sentiments with disadvantage to the rea¬ 
der or hearer. 

A plain style rises one degree above a dry one. A writer of 
this character employs very little ornament of any kind, and rests, 
almost, entirely upon his sense. But, if he is at no pains to engage 
us by the employment of figures, musical arrangement, or any other 
art of writing, he studies, however, to avoid disgusting us like a dry 
and a harsh writer. Besides perspicuity, he pursues propriety, puri¬ 
ty, and precision, in his language ; which form one degree, and no 
inconsiderable one, of beauty. Liveliness, too, and force, may be 
consistent with a very plain style; and therefore, such an author, if 
his sentiments be good, may be abundantly agreeable. Tne differ¬ 
ence between a dry and a plain writer, is, that the former is incapa¬ 
ble of ornament, and seems not to know what it is ; the latter seeks 
not after it. He gives us his meaning, in good language, distinct 
and pure; any further ornament, he gives himself no trouble about; 

periods-modelled ; every word seems to drop by chance, though it falls into its 
proper place. Nothing is cold or languid ; the whole is airy, animated and vigor¬ 
ous ; what is little is gay, what is great is splendid. Though all is easy, uothing 
is feeble; though all seems careless, there is nothing harsh; and though, since 
his earlier works more than a century has passed, they have nothing yet uncouth 
or obsolete.’ 

2G 2fi 



NEAT STYLE. 


20* 


[lect. xviii. 


either, because he thinks it unnecessary to his subject; or, because 
his genius does not Jead him to delight in it; or, because it leads 
him to despise it.* 

This last was the case with Dean Swift, who may be placed at the 
head of those that have employed the plain style. Few writers 
have discovered more capacity. He treats every subject which he 
handles, whether serious or ludicrous, in a masterly manner. He 
knew, almost beyond any man, the purity, the extent, the precision 
of the English language; and, therefore, to such as wish to attain a 
pure and correct style, he is one of the most useful models. But 
we must not look for much ornament and grace in his language. 
His haughty and morose genius, made him despise any embellish¬ 
ment ot this kind as beneath his dignity. He delivers his sentiments 
in a plain, downright, positive manner, like one who is sure he is in 
the right; and is very indifferent whether you be pleased or not. 
His sentences are commonly negligently arranged; distinctly enough 
as to the sense; but, without any regard to smoothness of sound; 
often without much regard to compactness, or elegance. If a me¬ 
taphor, or any other figure, chanced to render his satire more poign¬ 
ant, he would, perhaps, vouchsafe to adopt it, when it came in his 
way; but if it tended only to embellish and illustrate, he would 
rather throw it aside. Hence, in his serious pieces, his style often 
borders upon the dry and unpleasing; in his humorous ones, the 
plainness of his manner sets off his wit to the highest advantage. 
There is no froth nor affectation in it; it flows without any studied 
preparation ; and while he hardly appears to smile himself, he makes 
his reader laugh heartily. To a writer of such a genius as Dean 
Swift, the plain style was most admirably fitted. Among our phi¬ 
losophical writers, Mr. Locke comes under this class; perspicuous 
and pure, but almost without any ornament whatever. In works 
which admit or require ever so much ornament, there are parts 
where the plain manner ought to predominate. But we must re¬ 
member, that when this is the character which a writer affects 
throughout his whole composition, great weight of matter and great 
force of sentiment are required, in order to keep up the reader’s 
attention, and prevent him from becoming tired of the author. 

What is called a neat style comes next in order; and here we are 
got into the region of ornament; but that ornament, not of the high¬ 
est or most sparkling kind. A writer of this character shows, that 
he does not despise the beauty of language. It is an object of his 
attention. But his attention is shown in the choice of words, and 
in a graceful collocation of them, rather than in any high efforts of 
imagination or eloquence. His sentences are always clean, and 
free from the encumbrance of superfluous words; of a moderate 
length; rather inclining to brevity, than a swelling structure; clos- 

* On this head, of the general characters of style, particularly the plain and 
the simple, and the characters of those English authors who are classed under 
them, in this, and the following lecture, several ideas have been taken from a 
manuscript treatise on rhetoric, part of which was shown to me, many years ago, 
by the learned and ingenious author, Dr. Adam Smith ; and which, it is hoped, 
will be given by him to the public. 




LECT. XVIII.] 


ELEGANT STYLE. 


aoy 

c 

ing with propriety; without any tails or adjections dragging after 
the proper close. His cadence is varied; but not of the studied 
musical kind. His figures, if he uses any, are short and correct, ra¬ 
ther than bold and glowing. Such a style as -this may be attained 
by a writer who has no great powers of fancy or genius; by industry 
merely, and careful attention to the rules of Writing, and it is a style 
always agreeable. It imprints a character of moderate elevation on our 
composition, and carries a decent degree of ornament, which is not 
unsuitable to any subject whatever. A familiar letter, or a law paper, 
on the driest subject, may be written with neatness; and a sermon, 
or a philosophical treatise, in a neat style, will be read with pleasure. 

An elegant style is a character, expressing a higher degree of or¬ 
nament than a neat one; and indeed, is the term usually applied to 
style, when possessing all the virtues of ornament, without any of 
its excesses or defects. From what has been formerly delivered, it 
will easily be understood, that complete elegance implies great per¬ 
spicuity and propriety; purity in the choice of words, and care and 
dexterity in their harmonious and happy arrangement. It implies 
farther, the grace and beauty of imagination spread over style, as 
far as the subject admits it; and all the illustration which figurative 
language adds, when properly employed. In a word, an elegant 
writer is one who pleases the fancy and the ear, while he informs 
the understanding: and who gives us his ideas clothed with all the 
beauty of expression, but not overcharged with any of its misplaced 
finery. In this class, therefore, we place only the first rate writers in 
the language; such as Addison, Dryden, Pope, Temple, Boling- 
broke, Atterbury, and a few more: writers who differ widely from 
one another in many of the attributes of style, but whom we now 
class together, under the denomination of elegant, as, in the scale 
of ornament, possessing nearly the same place. 

When the ornaments applied to style, are too rich and gaudy in 
proportion to the subject; when they return upon us too fast, and 
strike us either with a dazzling lustre, or a false brilliancy, this forms 
what is called a florid style; a term commonly used to signify the 
excess of ornament. In a young composer this is very pardonable. 
Perhaps it is even a promising symptom in young people, that their 
style should incline to the florid and luxuriant; ‘ Volo se efferat in 
adolescente fsecunditas,’ says Quintilian, ‘multum inde decoquent 
anni, multum ratio limabit, aliquid velut usu ipso deteretur; sit 
modo unde excidi possit quid et exculpi. Audeat haec astas plura, 
et inveniat et inventis gaudeat; sint licet ilia non satis interim sicca 
et severa. Facile remedium est ubertatis: sterilia nullo labore vin- 
euntur.’* But, although the florid style may be allowed to youth, 


* 1 In youth, I wish to see luxuriancy of fancy appear. Much of it will be dimin¬ 
ished by years; much will be corrected bv ripening judgment; some of it, by the mere 
practice of composition, will be worn away. Let there be only sufficient matter, at 
first that can bear some pruning and lopping off. At this time of life, let genius be 
bold and inventive, and pride itself in its efforts, though these should not, as yet,be cor¬ 
rect. Luxuriancy can easily be cured; but for barrenness there is no remedy.’ 



FLORID STYLE. 


20 4 


[lect. XVIII. 


in their first essays, it must not receive the same indulgence from 
writers of maturer years. It is to be expected, that judgment, as it 
ripens, should chasten imagination, and reject as juvenile all such 
ornaments as are redundant, unsuitable to the subject, or not condu¬ 
cive to illustrate it. Nothing can be more contemptible than that tinsel 
splendour of language, which some writers perpetually affect. It were 
well, if this could be ascribed to the real overflowing of a rich ima¬ 
gination. VYe should then have something to amuse us, at least, if 
we found little to instruct us. Rut the worst is, that with those frothy 
writers, it is a luxuriancy of words, not of fancy. We see a laboured 
attempt to rise to a splendour of composition, of which they have 
formed to themselves some loose idea; but having no strength of genius 
for attaining it, they endeavour to supply the defect by poetical words, 
by cold exclamations, by common-place figures, and every thing that 
has the appearance of pomp and magnificence. It has escaped these 
writers, that sobriety in ornament is one great secret for rendering it 
pleasing; and that without a foundation of good sense and solid 
thought, the most florid style is but a childish imposition on the pub¬ 
lic. The public, however, are but too apt to be so imposed on ; at 
least, the mob of readers, who are very ready to be caught, at first, 
with whatever is dazzling and gaudy. 

I cannot help thinking, that it reflects more honour on the religious 
turn, and good dispositions of the present age, than on the public taste, 
that Mr. Hervey’s Meditations have had so great a currency. The 
pious and benevolent heart which is always displayed in them, and 
the lively fancy which, on some occasions, appears, justly merits ap¬ 
plause : but the perpetual glitter of expression, the swoln imagery, 
and strained description which abound in them, are ornaments of a 
false kind. I would, therefore, advise students of oratory to imitate 
Mr. Heryey’s piety rather than his style: and, in all compositions of a 
serious kind, to turn their attention, as Mr. Pope says, ‘ from sounds 
to things, from fancy to the heart.’ Admonitions of this kind, I have 
already had occasion to give, and may hereafter repeat them ; as I 
conceive nothing more incumbent on me in this course of lectures, 
than to take every opportunity of cautioning my readers against the 
affected and frivolous use of ornament: and instead of that slight and 
superficial taste in writing, which I apprehend to be at present too 
fashionable, to introduce, as far as my endeavours can avail, a taste 
for more solid thought, and more manly simplicity in style. 


QUESTIONS. 


Having treated at considerable 
lenpth of the figures of speech, before 
finally dismissing* this subject, what does 
our author think incumbent on him ? 
Though these have, in part, been anti¬ 
cipated, yet, what may be of use ; and 
why ? With repeating what observa¬ 
tion, does our author begin ? Instances 
°f what, have already been given ? On 


the other hand, what is remarked? How 
is this illustrated ? In the second place, 
that figures be beautiful, what is requi¬ 
site ? What has been shown ? When 
only, therefore, are they beautiful; and 
what remark follows? When will they 
have a miserable effect; and what is a 
very erroneous idea? This is indeed, 
what? What has often been the effect 






QUESTIONS, 


‘204 a 


LECT. xviii.J 

of this false idea ? From what does the 
real and proper ornaments of style arise; 
and how do they flow ? Of a writer of 
genius, what is remarked ? On what oc¬ 
casions should we never attempt to hunt 
for figures; and why ? W hat is the third 
direction given concerning the use of 
figures; and why ? What is the effect 
on composition of too great attention to 
ornament; and what remark follows ? 
What is said of the direction of the an¬ 
cient critics on this head 7 What says 
Cicero? With what direction does Quin¬ 
tilian conclude his discourse concerning 
them? On the use of figurative lan¬ 
guage, what is the fourth direction ? Of 
imagination, what is observed ? What 
improvement may it derive from culti¬ 
vation ; but what will prove disgusting? 
With what consideration should we sa¬ 
tisfy ourselves? What will always com¬ 
mand attention ; and of what are they 
the foundation? What remark follows? 
What directions cannot be too often 
given to those who wish to excel in the 
liberal arts? When our author entered 
upon the consideration of style, what 
did he observe ? To what do these dis¬ 
tinctions, in general, carry some refe¬ 
rence ; but refer chiefly to what? From 
what do they arise ; and what do they 
comprehend ? Of what does it remain 
now to speak ? Of the style necessary 
for different subjects, what is observed? 
How is this illustrated from philosophi¬ 
cal writings, from orations, and from 
the different parts of a sermon? But 
what does our author at present mean 
to remark ? How is this remark illus¬ 
trated from the writings of Livy, and 
of Tacitus? How is this further illus¬ 
trated ? Wherever there is real and na¬ 
tive genius, what is its effect ? Where 
nothing of this appears, what are we 
apt to infer ? How is this illustrated ? 
Among the ancients, how did Dionysi¬ 
us of Halicarnassus, divide these gene¬ 
ral characters of style? By the austere, 
what does he mean ; and what exam¬ 
ples are given ? What does he mean by 
the florid ? Whom does he instance as 
writers of this character ? What is the 
middle kind; what does it comprehend; 
and in this class who are placed ? Of 
this last class, what is observed; and 
why? Of Cicero, and Quintilian’s di¬ 
vision of style, what does our author 
remark; and why does he not dwell on 
it? From what does one of the most 


obvious distinctions of the different 
kinds of style arise, and what does it 
form ? Of a concise writer, what is ob¬ 
served ? How does he regard ornament? 
In what light does he place his thoughts? 
How are his sentences arranged; what 
is studied in them; and for what are 
they commonly designed ? Of a diffuse 
writer, what is remarked? Why does 
he place his thought in a variety of 
lights; and why is he not careful to ex¬ 
press it in its full strength at first ? 
What do writers of this character 
generally love; and of their periods, 
what is observed ? Of each of these 
maimers, what is observed ? What re¬ 
mark follows? For illustrations of these 
general characters, to whom does our 
author refer? How are we to collect 
the idea of a formed manner of writing? 
Who are the two most remarkable ex¬ 
amples known by our author? Of Aris¬ 
totle, and of his frugality, what is ob¬ 
served ? Of a beautiful and magnificent 
diffuseness, who is the most illustrious 
instance that can be given ; and what 
other writers fall in some degree under 
this class ? In judging when it is proper 
to lean to the concise, and when to the 
diffuse manner, by what must we be 
directed ? Why do discourses that are 
to be spoken, require a more copious 
style, than books that are to be read ? 
On what should we never presume? 
What style, therefore, is required in all 
public speeches; guarding, at the same 
time, against what? In written compo¬ 
sitions, why does a certain degree of 
conciseness, possess great advantages ? 
How is this illustrated? When should 
description be in a concise strain ? How 
does it appear that this is different from 
the common opinion? What does our 
author, on the contrary, apprehend; 
and why? Accordingly, of the most 
masterly describers, what is observed ? 
At one glance, what do they show us? 
Upon what, does the strength and vi¬ 
vacity of description much depend ? 

In what style should addresses to the 
passions be made ? In these, why is it 
dangerous to be diffuse? What hazard 
attends becoming prolix? Of the heart, 
and the fancy, what is observed? In ad¬ 
dresses to what, is the case quite differ¬ 
ent ; and there, what manner is prefer¬ 
red ? When should you be concise, and 
when is it better to be full ? Of historical 
narration, what is observed; and how 



204 6 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect. XVIII. 


is this illustrated ? Of a diffuse writer, 
what was observed; and of a concise 
writer, what, therefore, is certain? 
What, however, is not to be inferred 
from this; and why not? Who is a 
remarkable example of this; and of 
his sentences, what is observed? Of 
the style of most of the French wri¬ 
ters, what is observed? What does a 
French author do; and what is the 
direct effect of these short sentences? 
What is the effect of the quick, succes¬ 
sive impulses, which they make on the 
mind? Of long periods, what is ob¬ 
served ? When is an intermixture of 
long and short sentences requisite ? But 
of them, what is said? How are the 
nervous and the feeble generally held ? 
How does it appear that they do very 
often coincide ? As this does not always 
hold, of what are there instances? 
Who are examples; and of the latter 
style, what is observed ? Where is the 
foundation of a nervous or weak style 
laid ? How is this illustrated? Of his 
words and expressions, what is obser¬ 
ved? What impression does a ner¬ 
vous writer give us of his subj ect; and 
why? What was before observed? 
How should every author study to ex¬ 
press himself? What remark follows; 
and when should strength predominate 
in style ? Hence, where is it expected 
most; and who is one of the most per¬ 
fect examples? What holds of the ner¬ 
vous style as well as others ? What is ( 
the effect of too great a study of strength; j 
and from what does harshness arise ? Of < 
whom is this reckoned the fault? Of i 
t hese writers, and of the language in 
their hands, what is observed ? What i 
illustration of this remark is given ? < 
What advantages attend this sort of ; 
style ? To what has the present form of 
our lansruasre sacrificed the study of ] 
strength ? Of our arrangement of words, 
what is remarked ? What was the area 
of the formation of our present style ? 
Who was the first who laid aside those 
frequent inversions ? Who polished the 
language still more ? But to whom are 
we most indebted for the present state r 
of our language; and of him, what is 
observed ? Since his time, to what has 
considerable attention been paid; but c 
what follows? How do we now com¬ 
pare with the ancients ? Hitherto, how 
have we considered style ? How do we 
now proceed to consider it? Here, how 


, does the style of different authors seem 
| to rise ? Of a dry manner, what is ob¬ 
served ? Where, only, is it tolerable; 
and what, even there, is requisite ? Of 
Aristotle, what is here observed ? Why 
does not this manner deserve to be imi¬ 
tated? What is remarked of a plain 
style ? Of a writer of this character, 
what is observed? What does he pur¬ 
sue in his language ? What, also, may 
be consistent with a very plain style*; 
and therefore, what follows ? What is 
the difference between a dry and a 
plain writer ? Repeat the remarks here 
made on the style of Dean Swift. What, 
also, is remarked of Mr. Locke ? In a 
neat style, what have we reached; 
and of a writer of this character, what 
is observed ? By whom may such a 
style as this be attained; and how? 
Of it, what is remarked, and how ex¬ 
tensively may it be used ? Of an ele¬ 
gant stjde, what is observed ? From 
what has been formerly delivered, what 
will be easily understood ? What far ¬ 
ther does it imply; and of an elegant 
writer, what is observed ? Whom may 
we place in this class; and of them 
what is observed? What forms a florid 
style? 01 it, in a young composer, what 
is remarked; and what says Quintilian? 
Why must not this style receive the 
same indulgence from writers of ma¬ 
ture years? Of these frothy writers, 
what is observed; and in them, what 
do we see? What has escaped them ? 
Of Mr. Hervey’s Meditations, what is 
observed ? In them, what justly merits 
applause; but what are of a false kind? 
What advice, to students of oratory, is 
therefore given? Why are admonitions 
of this kind repeated ? 


ANALYSIS. 

1. Directions about the use of figures. 

a. The chief beauties of composition do 

not depend upon them. 

b. They must rise naturally from the 

subject. 

c. They should not be employed too fre¬ 

quently. 

d. Without a genius for them, they should 

not be attempted. 

2. Style, with respect to its expression. 

a. The diffuse and the concise style. 

b. The nervous and the feeble style 

3. Style, with respect to ornament. 

a. A dry style. 

b. A plain style. 

c. A neat style. 

d. An elegant style. 

E. A florid style 








(305) 

LECTURE XIX. 



GENERAL CHARACTERS OF STYLE.—SIMPLE, AF¬ 
FECTED, VEHEMENT.—DIRECTIONS FOR 
FORMING A PROPER STYLE. 

Having entered, in the last lecture, on the consideration of the 
general characters of style, I treated of the concise and diffuse, the 
nervous and feeble manner. I considered style also, with relation 
to the different degrees of ornament employed to beautify it, in 
which view, the manner of different authors rises according to the 
following gradation: dry, plain, neat, elegant, flowery. 

I am next to treat of style under another character, one of great 
importance in writing, and which requires to be accurately examin¬ 
ed, that of simplicity, or a natural style, as distinguished from affec¬ 
tation. Simplicity, applied to writing, is a term very frequently 
used; but,like other critical terms, often used loosely and without 
precision. This has been owing chiefly to the different meanings 
given to the word simplicity, which, therefore, it will be necessary 
here to distinguish; and to show in what sense it is a proper attri¬ 
bute of style. We may remark four different acceptations in which 
it is taken. 

The first is, simplicity of composition, as opposed to too great a 
variety of parts. Horace’s precept refers to this: 

Denique sit quod vis simplex duntaxat et unum * 

This is the simplicity of plan in a tragedy, as distinguished from 
double plots, and crowded incidents; the simplicity of the Iliad, or 
JEneid, in opposition to the digressions of Lucan, and the scattered 
tales of Ariosto; the simplicity of Grecian architecture, in opposition 
to the irregular variety of the Gothic. In this sense, simplicity is 
the same with unity. 

The second sense is simplicity of thought, as opposed to refine¬ 
ment. Simple thoughts are what arise naturally; what the occasion 
or the subject suggest unsought; and what, when once suggested, 
are easily apprehended by all. Refinement in writing, expresses a 
less natural and obvious train of thought, and which it required a 
peculiar turn of genius to pursue; within certain bounds very beau¬ 
tiful ; but when carried too far, approaching to intricacy, and hurting 
us by the appearance of being recherche , or far sought. Thus, we 
would naturally say, that Mr. Parnell is a poet of far greater simpli¬ 
city, in his turn of thought, than Mr. Cowley; Cicero’s thoughts on 
moral subjects are natural; Seneca’s too refined and laboured. In 
these two senses of simplicity, when it is opposed, either to variety 
of parts, or to refinement of thought, it has no proper relation to style. 


* 1 Then learn the wandering humour to control, 
And keep one equal tenour through the whole.’ 


Francip 



SIMPLICITY AND 


[lect. XIX. 


20t> 


There is a third sense of simplicity, in which it has respect to 
style; and stands opposed to too much ornament or pomp of lan¬ 
guage ; as when we say, Mr. Locke is a simple, Mr. Hervey a florid 
writer; and it is in this sense, that the ‘simplex,’ the ‘tenue ’ or 
‘subtile genusdicendi,’ is understood by Cicero and Quintilian. The 
simple style, in this sense, coincides with the plain or the neat style, 
which I before mentioned; and, therefore, requires no farther illus¬ 
tration. 

But there is a fourth sense of simplicity, also, respecting style; 
hut not respecting the degree of ornament employed, so much as 
the easy and natural manner in which our language expresses our 
thoughts. This is quite different from the former sense of the word 
just now mentioned, in which simplicity was equivalent to plainness : 
whereas, in this sense, it is compatible with the highest ornament. 
Homer, for instance, possesses this simplicity in the greatest perfec¬ 
tion; and yet no writer has more ornament and beauty. This sim¬ 
plicity, which is what we are now to consider, stands opposed, not 
to ornament, but to affectation of ornament, or appearance of labour 
about our style; and it is a distinguishing excellency in writing. 

A writer of simplicity expresses himself in such a manner, that 
every one thinks he could have written in the same way; Horace 
describes it, 

-ut sibi quivis 

Speret idem, sudet multiim, frustraque laboret 
Ausus idem.* 

There are no marks of art in his expression: it seems the very lan¬ 
guage of nature ; you see in the style, not the writer and his labour, 
but the man in his own natural character. He may be rich in his 
expression; he may be full of figures, and of fancy; but these flow 
from him without effort; and he appears to write in this manner, not 
because he has studied it, but because it is the manner of expression 
most natural to him. A certain degree of negligence, also, is not 
inconsistent with this character of style, and even not ungraceful in 
it; for too minute an attention to words is foreign to it: ‘ Habeat 
ille,’ says Cicero, (Orat. No. 77) ‘molle quiddam, et quod indicet 
non ingratam negligentiam hominis, de re magis quam de verbo la- 
borantis.’t This is the great advantage of simplicity of style, that, 
like simplicity of manners, it shows us a man’s sentiments and turn 
of mind laid open without disguise. More studied and artificial 
manners of writing, however beautiful, have always this disadvan¬ 
tage, that they exhibit an author in form, like a man at court, where 
the splendour of dress, and the ceremonial of behaviour, conceal those 
peculiarities which distinguish one man from another. But reading 
an author of simplicity, is like conversing with a person of distinction 

* ‘From well-known tales such fictions would I raise 

As all might hope to imitate with ease; 

Yet while they strive the same success to gain, 

Should find their labours, and their hopes in vain. ? Francis 

f ‘ Let this style have a certain softness and ease, which shall characterize a nee 
itgence, not unpleasing in an author, who appears to be more solicitous about the 
thought than the expression. 





lect. xix.'J AFFECTATION IN STYLE. 


207 


at home, and with ease, where we find natural manners, and a mark- 
ed character. 

The highest degree of this simplicity, is expressed by a French 
term, to which we have none that fully answers in our language, 
naivete . It is not easy to give a precise idea of the import of this 
word. It always expresses a discovery of character. I believe the 
best account of it is given by a French critic, M. Marmontel, who 
explains it thus: That sort of amiable ingenuity, or undisguised open¬ 
ness, which seems to give us some degree of superiority over the 
person who shows it; a certain infantine simplicity, which we love in 
our hearts, but which displays some features of the character that 
we think we could have art enough to hide; and which, therefore, 
always leads us to smile at the person who discovers this character. 
La Fontaine, in his Fables, is given as the great example of such 
naivete. This, however, is to be understood, as descriptive of a par¬ 
ticular species only of simplicity. 

With respect to simplicity in general, we may remark, that the an¬ 
cient original writers are always the most eminent for it. This hap¬ 
pens from a plain reason, that they wrote from the dictates of natu¬ 
ral genius, and were not formed upon the labours and writings of 
others, which is always in hazard of producing affectation. Hence, 
among the Greek writers, we have more models of a beautiful sim¬ 
plicity than among the Roman. Homer, Hesiod, Anacreon, Theo¬ 
critus, Herodotus, and Xenophon, are all distinguished for it. Among 
the Romans also, we have some writers of this character, particular¬ 
ly Terence, Lucretius, Phsedrus, and Julius Caesar. The following 
passage of Terence’s Andria, is a beautiful instance of simplicity of 
manner in description. 

Funus interim 

Procedit; sequimur; ad sepulchrum venimus; 

In ignem imposita est; fletur. Interea haec soror, 

Quam dixi, ad llammam accessit imprudentius 
Satis cum periculo. Ibi turn exanimatus Pamphilus, 

Bene dissimulatum amorera, et celatum indicat; 

Occurrit praeceps, mulierem ab igne retrahit, 

Mea Glycerium., inquit, quid agis? Cur tu is perditum ? 

Turn ilia, ut consuetum facile amorem cemeres, 

Rejecit se in eura, flens quam familiariter.* 

All the words here are remarkably happy and elegant; and convey 
a most lively picture of the scene described; while, at the same time, 


* 1 Meanwhile the funeral proceeds ; we follow : 

Come to the sepulchre: the body’s placed 
Upon the pile ; lamented; whereupon 
This sister I was speaking of, all wild, 

Ran to the flames with peril of her life. 

There! there! the frighted Pamphilus betrays 
His well-dissembled and long hidden love; 

Runs up and takes her round the waist, and cries, 

Oh ! my Glycerium! what is it you do ? 

Why, why endeavour to destroy yourself ? 

Then she, in such a manner, that you thence 
Might easily perceive their long, long love, 

Threw herself back into his arms, and wept, 

Oh ! how familiarly!’ CoLMAff. 

i H 



SIMPLICITY AND 


208 


[lect. xjx. 


the style appears wholly artless and unlaboured. Let us, next, con¬ 
sider some English writers who come under this class. 

Simplicity is the great beauty of Archbishop Tillotson’s manner. 
Tillotson has long been admired as an eloquent writer, and a model 
for preaching. But his eloquence, if we can call it such, has been 
often misunderstood. For, if we include in the idea of eloquence, 
vehemence and strength, picturesque description, glowing figures, or 
correct arrangement of sentences, in all these parts of oratory the 
Archbishop is exceedingly deficient. His style is always pure, in¬ 
deed, and perspicuous, but careless and remiss; too often feeble and 
languid; little beauty in the construction of his sentences, which are 
frequently suffered to drag unharmoniously; seldom any attempt to¬ 
wards strength or sublimity. But, notwithstanding these defects, 
such a constant vein of good sense and piety runs through his works, 
such an earnest and serious manner, and so much useful instruction 
conveyed in a style so pure, natural, and unaffected, as will justly re¬ 
commend him to high regard, as long as the English language re¬ 
mains; not, indeed, as a model of the highest eloquence, but as a 
simple and amiable writer, whose manner is strongly expressive of 
great goodness and worth. I observed before, that simplicity of 
manner may be consistent with some degree of negligence in style, 
and it is only the beauty of that simplicity which makes the negli¬ 
gence of such writers seem graceful. But, as appears in the Arch¬ 
bishop, negligence may sometimes be carried so far as to impair the 
beauty of simplicity, and make it border on a flat and languid manner. 

Sir William Temple is another remarkable writer in the style of 
simplicity. In point of ornament and correctness, he rises a degree 
above Tillotson; though, for correctness, he is not in the highest 
rank. All is easy and flowing in him; he is exceedingly harmoni¬ 
ous ; smoothness, and what may be called amenity, are the distinguish¬ 
ing characters of his manner; relaxing, sometimes, as such a man¬ 
ner will naturally do, into a prolix and remiss style. No writer what¬ 
ever has stamped upon his style a more lively impression of his own 
character. In reading his works, we seem engaged in conversation 
with him; we become thoroughly acquainted with him, not merely as 
an author, but as a man; and contract a friendship for him. He may 
be classed as standing in the middle, between a negligent simplicity, 
and the highest degree of ornament, which this character of style 
admits. 

Of the latter of these, the highest, most correct, and ornamented 
degree of the simple manner, Mr. Addison, is, beyond doubt, in the 
English language, the most perfect example: and, therefore, though 
not without some faults, he is, on the whole, the safest model for 
imitation, and the freest from considerable defects, which the lan¬ 
guage affords. Perspicuous and pure, he is in the highest degree; 
his precision, indeed, not very great, yet nearly as great as the sub¬ 
jects which he treats of require; the construction of his sentences 
easy, agreeable, and commonly very musical; carrying a character 
of smoothness more than of strength. In figurative language, he is 
rich, particularly in similes and metaphors; which are so employ- 


tiECT. XIX.] 


AFFECTATION IN STYLE. 


209 


ed, as to render his style splendid, without being gaudy. There is 
not the least affectation in his manner; we see no marks of labour; 
nothing forced or constrained; but great elegance,joined with great 
ease and simplicity. He is, in particular, distinguished by a charac¬ 
ter of modesty, and of politeness, which appears in all his writings. 
No author has a more popular and insinuatingmanner; and the great 
regard which he every where shows for virtue and religion, recom¬ 
mends him highly. If he fails in any thing, it is in want of strength 
and precision, which renders his manner, though perfectly suited to 
such Assays as he writes in the Spectator, not altogether a proper mo¬ 
del for any of the higher and more elaborate kinds of composition. 
Though the public have ever done much justice to his merit, yet the 
nature of his merit has not always been seen in its true light; for, 
though his poetry be elegant, he certainly bears a higher rank among 
the prose writers, than he is entitled to among the poets; and, in 
prose, his humour is of a much higher, and more original strain, than 
his philosophy. The character of Sir Roger de Coverly discovers 
more genius than the critique on Milton. 

Such authors as those, whose characters I have been giving, one is 
never tired of reading. There is nothing in their manner that strains 
or fatigues our thoughts; we are pleased, without being dazzled by 
their lustre. So powerful is the charm of simplicity, in an author 
of real genius, that it atones for many defects, and reconciles us to 
many a careless expression. Hence, in all the most excellent au¬ 
thors, both in prose and verse, the simple and natural manner may 
be always remarked ; although other beauties being predominant, 
this forms not their peculiar and distinguishing character. Thus Mil- 
ton is simple in the midst of all his grandeur; and Demosthenes in 
the midst of all his vehemence. To grave and solemn writings, 
simplicity of manner adds the more venerable air. Accordingly, 
this has often been remarked as the prevailing character throughout 
all the sacred scriptures ; and, indeed, no other character of style was 
so much suited to the dignity of inspiration. 

Of authors who, notwithstanding many excellencies, have ren¬ 
dered their style much less beautiful by want of simplicity, I cannot 
°ive a more remarkable example than Lord Shaftesbury. This is 
an author on whom I have made observations several times before, 
and shall now take leave of him, with giving his general character 
under this head. Considerable merit, doubtless, he has. His 
works might be read with profit for the moral philosophy which they 
contain, had he not filled them with so many oblique and invidious 
insinuations against the Christian religion; thrown out, too, with 
so much spleen and satire, as do no honour to his memory, either 
as an author or a man. His language has many beauties. It is firm, 
and supported in an uncommon degree; it is rich and musical. No 
English author, as I formerly showed, has attended so much to the 
regular construction of his sentences, both with respect to propriety, 
and with respect to cadence. All this gives so much elegance and 
pomp to his language, that there is no wonder it should have been 


210 


SIMPLICITY IN STYLE. 


[lect. XIX, 


highly admired by some. It is greatly hurt, however, by perpe¬ 
tual stiffness and affectation. This is its capital fault. His lordship 
can express nothing with simplicity. He seems to have considered 
it as vulgar, and beneath the dignity of a man of quality,to speak 
like other men. Hence he is ever in buskins; and dressed out with 
magnificent elegance. In every sentence, we see the marks of 
labour and art; nothing of that ease which expresses a sentiment 
coming natural and warm from the heart. Of figures and orna¬ 
ment of every kind, he is exceedingly fond; sometimes happy in 
them; but his fondness for them is too visible; and having once laid 
hold of some metaphor or allusion that pleased him, he knows not 
how to part with it. What is most wonderful, he was a professed 
admirer of simplicity; is always extolling it in the ancients, and 
censuring the moderns for the want of it; though he departs from 
it himself as far as any one modern whatever. Lord Shaftesbury 
possessed delicacy and refinement of taste, to a degree that we 
may call excessive and sickly; but he had little warmth of passion; 
few strong or vigorous feelings, and the coldness of his character, 
led him to that artificial and stately manner which appears in his 
writings. He was fonder of nothing than of wit and raillery; but he 
is far from being happy in it. He attempts it often, but always 
awkwardly; he is stiff, even in his pleasantry; and laughs in form, 
like an author, and not like a man.* 

From the account which I have given of Lord Shaftesbury’s man¬ 
ner, it may easily be imagined, that he would mislead many who 
blindly admired him. Nothing is more dangerous to the tribe of 
imitators, than an author, who, with many imposing beauties, has 
also some very considerable blemishes. This is fully exemplified 
in Mr. Blackwall, of Aberdeen, the author of the Life of Homer, 
the Letters on Mythology, and the Court of Augustus; a writer of 
considerable learning, and of ingenuity also; but infected with an 
extravagant love of an artificial style, and of that parade of lan¬ 
guage which distinguishes the Shaftesburean manner. 

Having now said so much to recommend simplicity, or the easy 
and natural manner of writing, and having pointed out the defects 
of an opposite manner; in order to prevent mistakes on this subject, 
it is necessary for me to observe, that it is very possible for an au¬ 
thor to write simply, and yet not beautifully. One may be free 
from affectation, and not have merit. The beautiful simplicity sup¬ 
poses an author to possess real genius; to write with solidity, purity, 
and liveliness of imagination. In this case, the simplicity or unaf¬ 
fectedness of his manner, is the crowning ornament; it heightens 
every other beauty; it is the dress of nature, without which, all 
beauties are imperfect. But if mere unaffectedness were sufficient 

* It may perhaps be not unworthy of being mentioned, that the first edition of 
his Inquiry into Virtue, was published, surreptitiously, I believe, in a separate 
form, in the year 1699; and is sometimes to be met with : by comparing which, 
with the corrected edition of the same treatise, as it now stands among his works, 
we see one of the most curious and useful examples that I know, of w hat is cal¬ 
led Lima; labor : the art of polishing language, breaking long sentences, and working 
up an imperfect draught into a highly finished performance. 



JLECT. XIX.] 


VEHEMENT STYLE. 


211 


to constitute the beauty of style, weak, trifling, and dull writers 
might often lay claim to this beauty. And accordingly we fre¬ 
quently meet with pretended critics, who extol the dullest wri¬ 
ters on account of what they call the ‘ chaste simplicity of their 
manner;’ which, in truth, is no other than the absence of every 
ornament, through the mere want of genius and imagination. We 
must distinguish, therefore, between that simplicity which accom¬ 
panies true genius, and which is perfectly compatible with every 
proper ornament of style, and that which is no other than a careless 
and a slovenly manner. Indeed, the distinction is easily made 
from the effect produced. The one never fails to interest the rea¬ 
der; the other is insipid and tiresome. 

I proceed to mention one other manner or character of style, 
different from any that I have yet spoken of; which may be dis¬ 
tinguished by the name of the vehement. This always implies 
strength, and is not, by any means, inconsistent with simplicity; 
but, in its predominant character, is distinguishable from either the 
strong or the simple manner. It has a peculiar ardour; it is a glow¬ 
ing style; the language of a man, whose imagination and passions 
are heated, and strongly affected by what he writes; who is there¬ 
fore negligent of lesser graces, but pours himself forth with the 
rapidity and fullness of a torrent. It belongs to the higher kinds of 
oratory; and indeed is rather expected from a man who is speaking, 
than from one who is writing in his closet. The orations of De¬ 
mosthenes furnish the full and perfect example of this species of 
style. 

Among English writers, the one who has most of this character, 
though mixed, indeed, with several defects, is Lord Bolingbroke. 
Bolingbroke was formed by nature to be a factious leader; the de¬ 
magogue of a popular assembly. Accordingly, the style that runs 
through all his political writings, is that of one declaiming with 
heat, rather than writing with deliberation. He abounds in rheto¬ 
rical figures; and pours himself forth with great impetuosity. He 
is copious to a fault; places the same thought belore us in many 
different views; but generally with life and ardour. He is bold 
rather than correct; a torrent that flows strong, but often muddy. 
His sentences are varied as to length and shortness; inclining, how¬ 
ever, most to long periods; sometimes including parentheses, and 
frequently crowding and heaping a multitude of things upon one an¬ 
other, as naturally happens in the warmth of speaking. In the 
choice of his words, there is great felicity and precision. In exact 
construction of sentences, he is much inferior to Lord Shaftesbury; 
but greatly superior to him in life and ease. Upon the whole, his 
merit as a writer would have been very considerable, if his matter 
had equalled his style. But while we find much to commend 
in the latter, in the former, as I before remarked, we can hardly 
find any thing to commend. In his reasonings, for the most part, he is 
flimsy and false; in his political writings, factious; in what h.e calls 
his philosophical ones, irreligious and sophistical in the highest de- 


212 GENERAL CHARACTERS [lect. xix. 

I shall insist no longer on the different manners of writers, or the 
general characters of stymie. Some others, beside those which I have 
mentioned, might be pointed out; but I am sensible that it is very 
difficult to separate such general considerations of the style of au¬ 
thors from their peculiar turn of sentiment, which it is not my 
business, at present, to criticise. Conceited writers, for instance, 
discover their spirit so much in their composition, that it imprints 
on their style a character of pertness; though I confess it is diffi¬ 
cult to say, whether this can be classed among the attributes of 
style, or rather is to be ascribed entirely to the thought. In what¬ 
ever class we rank it, all appearances of it ought to be avoided 
with care, as a most disgusting blemish in writing. Under the gen¬ 
eral heads which I have considered, I have taken an opportunity of 
giving the character of many of the eminent classics in the English 
language. 

From what I have said on this subject, it may be inferred, that 
to determine among all these different manners of writing, what 
is precisely the best, is neither easy, nor necessary. Style is a 
field that admits great latitude. Its qualities in different authors 
may be very different; and yet in them all beautiful Room must 
be left here for genius; for that particular determination which 
every one receives from nature to one manner of expression more 
than another. Some general qualities, indeed, there are, of such 
importance, as should always, in every kind of composition, be 
kept in view; and some defects we should always study to avoid. 
An ostentatious, a feeble, a harsh, or an obscure style, for instance, 
are always faults; and perspicuity, strength, neatness, and sim¬ 
plicity, are beauties to be always aimed at. But as to the mixture 
of all, or the degree of predominancy of any one of these good 
qualities, for forming our peculiar distinguishing manner, no precise 
rules can be given; nor will I venture to point out any one model 
as absolutely perfect. 

It will be more to the purpose, that I conclude these dissertations 
upon style, with a few directions concerning the proper method of 
attaining a good style, in general; leaving the particular character 
oi that style to be either formed by the subject on which we write 
or prompted by the bent of genius. 

The first direction which I give for this purpose, is, to study clear 
ideas on the subject concerning which we are to write or speak. This 
is a direction which may at first appear to have small relation to 
style. Its relation to it, however, is extremely close. The founda¬ 
tion of all good style, is good sense, accompanied with a lively ima¬ 
gination. The style and thoughts of a writer are so intimately con¬ 
nected, that, as I have several times hinted, it is frequently hard to 
distinguish them. Wherever the impressions of things upon our 
minds are faint and indistinct, or perplexed and confused, our style 
m treating of such things will infallibly be so too. Whereas what 
we conceive clearly and feel strongly, we shall naturally express 
with clearness and with strength. This, then, we may be assured, 
is a capital rule as to style, to think closely of the subject, till we 


X.ECT. XIX.] 


OF STYLE. 


2 13 


have attained a full and distinct view of the matter which we are 
to clothe in words, till we become warm and interested in it; then, 
and not till then, shall we find expression begin to flow. Generally 
speaking, the best and most proper expressions, are those which a 
clear view of the subject suggests,without much labour or inquiry 
after them. This is Quintilian’s observation, lib. viii. c. 1.. ‘Ple- 
rumque optima verba rebus coherent, et cernuntur suo lumine. 
At nos quaerimus ilia, tanquam lateant, seque subducant. Ita nun- 
quam putamus verba esse circa id de quo dicendum est; sed ex aliis 
locis petimus, et inventis vim aflerimus.’* 

In the second place, in order to form a good style, the frequent 
practice of composing is indispensably necessary. Many rules con¬ 
cerning style I have delivered, but no rules will answer the end, 
without exercise and habit. At the same time, it is not every sort of 
composing that will improve style. This is so far from being the 
case, that by frequent, careless, and hasty composition, we shall ac¬ 
quire certainly a very bad style; we shall have more trouble after¬ 
wards in unlearning faults, and correcting negligences, than if we 
had not been accustomed to composition at all. In the beginning, 
therefore, we ought to write slowly and with much care. Let the 
facility and speed of writing, be the fruit of longer practice. ‘Mo- 
ram et solicitudinem,’ says Quintilian,with the greatest reason, 1. x. 
c. 3. ‘initiis impero. Nam primum hoc constituendum ac obtinen- 
dum est, ut quam optime scribamus: celeritatem dabit consuetudo. 
Paulatim res facilius se ostendent, verba respondebunt, compositio 
prosequetur. Cuncta denique ut in familia bene institute in officio 
erunt. Summa haec est rei; cito scribendo non fit ut bene scribatur: 
bene scribendo, fit ut cito.’t 

We must observe, however, that there may be an extreme, in 
too great and anxious care about words. We must not retard 
the eourse of thought, nor cool the heat of imagination, by pausing 
too long on every word we employ. There is, on certain occasions, 
a glow of composition which should be kept up, if we hope to ex¬ 
press ourselves happily, though at the expense of allowing some 
inadvertencies to pass. A more severe examination of these must 
be left to be the work of correction. For, if the practice of compo¬ 
sition be useful, the laborious work of correcting is no less so: it is 
indeed absolutely necessary to our reaping any benefit from the 
habit of composition. What we have written, should be laid by 

* ‘ The most proper words for the most part adhere to the thoughts which are 
to be expressed by them, and may be discovered as by their own light. But we 
hunt after them, as if they were hidden, and only to be fou d in a corner. Hence, 
instead of conceiving the words to lie near the subject, we go in quest of them to 
some other quarter, and endeavour to give force to the expressions we have found 
out.’ 

t ‘I enjoin, that such as are beginning the practice of composition, write slowly, 
and with anxious deliberation. Their great object at first should be, to write as 
well as possible; practice will enable them to write speedily. By degrees, matter 
will offer itself still more readily ; words will be at hand; composition will flow ; 
every thing as in the arrangement of a well-ordered family, will present itself in its 
proper place. The sum of the whole is this ; by hasty composition, we shall never 
acquire the art of composing well; by writing well, we shall come to write speedily ' 



214 


DIRECTIONS FOR 


[lect. XIX, 


for some little time, till the ardour of composition be past, till the 
fondness for the expressions we have used be worn off, and the ex¬ 
pressions themselves be forgotten; and then, reviewing our work 
with a cool and critical eye, as if it were the performance of another, 
we shall discern many imperfections which at first escaped us. Then 
is the season for pruning redundances; for weighing the arrange¬ 
ment ol sentences ; for attending to the juncture and connecting 
particles; and bringing style into a regular, correct, and supported 
form. This 4 Limas Labor,’ must be submitted to by ail who would 
communicate their thoughts with proper advantage to others; and 
some practice in it will soon sharpen their eye to the most necessary 
objects ol attention, and render it a much more easy and practicable 
work than might at first be imagined. 

In the third place, with respect to the assistance that is to be gain¬ 
ed from the writings of others, it is obvious, that we ought to render 
ourselves well acquainted with the style of the best authors. This 
is requisite both in order to form a just taste in style, and to supply 
us with a full stock of words on every subject. In reading authors 
with a view to style, attention should be given to the peculiarities of 
their different manners; and in this, and former lectures, I have en¬ 
deavoured to suggest several things that may be useful in this view. 
I know no exercise that will be found more useful for acquiring 
a proper style, than to translate some passages from an eminent En¬ 
glish author, into our own words. What 1 mean is, to take, for in¬ 
stance, some page of one of Mr. Addison’s Spectators, and read it 
carefully over two or three times, till we have got a firm hold of the 
thoughts contained in it; then to lay aside the book; to attempt to 
write out the passage from memory, in the best way we can; and 
having done so, next to open the book, and compare what we have 
written with the style of the author. Such an exercise will, by com¬ 
parison, show us where the defects of our style lie; will lead us to 
the proper attentions for rectifying them; and, among the different 
ways in which the same thought may be expressed, will make us 
perceive that which is the most beautiful. But, 

In the fourth place, I must caution, at the same time, against a ser¬ 
vile imitation of any author whatever. This is always dangerous. 
It hampers genius; it is likely to produce a stiff manner; and those 
who are given to close imitation, generally imitate an author’s faults 
as well as his beauties. No man will ever become a good writer or 
speaker, who has not some degree of confidence to follow his own 
genius. We ought to beware, in particular, of adopting any author’s 
noted phrases, or transcribing passages from him. Such a habit will 
prove fatal to all genuine composition. Infinitely better it is to have 
something that is our own, though of moderate beauty, than to affect 
to shine in borrowed ornaments, which will, at last, betray the utter 
poverty of our genius. On these heads of composing, correcting, 
reading, and imitating, I advise every student of oratory to consult 
what Quintilian has delivered in the tenth book of his Institutions, 
where he will find a variety of excellent observations and directions, 
that well deserve attention. 


LECT. XIX.] 


FORMING STYLE. 


215 


In the filth place, it is an obvious, but material rule, with respect 
to style, that we always study to adapt it to the subject, and also to the 
capacity of our hearers, if we are to speak in public. Nothing me¬ 
rits the name of eloquent or beautiful, which is not suited to the oc¬ 
casion, and to the persons to whom it is addressed. It is to the last 
degree awkward and absurd, to attempt a poetical florid style, on 
occasions when it should be our business only to argue and reason; 
or to speak with elaborate pomp of expression, before persons who 
comprehend nothing of it, and who can only stare at our unseasona¬ 
ble magnificence. These are defects not so much in point of style, 
as, what is much worse, in point of common sense. When we begin 
to write or speak, we ought previously to fix in our minds a clear con¬ 
ception of the end to be aimed at; to keep this steadily in our view, 
and to suit our style to it. If we do not sacrifice to this great object 
every ill-timed ornament that may occur to our fancy, we are unpar¬ 
donable; and though children and fools may admire, men of sense 
will laugh at us and our style. 

In the last place, I cannot conclude the subject without this admo¬ 
nition, that in any case, and on any occasion, attention to style must 
not engross us so much, as to detract from a higher degree of atten¬ 
tion to the thoughts. ‘Curam verborum/ says the great Roman cri¬ 
tic, ‘rerum volo esse solicitudinem.’* A direction the more neces¬ 
sary, as the present taste of the age in writing, seems to lean more to 
style than to thought. It is much easier to dress up trivial and com¬ 
mon sentiments with some beauty of expression, than to afford a fund 
of vigorous, ingenious, and useful thoughts. The latter, requires 
true genius ; the former may be attained by industry, with the help 
of very superficial parts. Hence, wefind so many writers frivolously 
rich in style, but wretchedly poor in sentiment. The public ear is 
now so much accustomed to a correct and ornamented style, that 
no writer can, with safety, neglect the study of it. But he is a 
contemptible one who does not look to something beyond it: who 
does not lay the chief stress upon his matter, and employ such 
ornaments of style to recommend it, as are manly, not foppish : 
‘Majore animo,’ says the writer whom I have so often quoted, ‘ag- 
gredienda est eloquentia; quae si toto corpore valet, ungues polire, et 
capillum componere, non existimabitad curam suam pertinere. Or- 
natus et virilis et fortis et sanctus sit; nec effeminatam levitatem, et 
fuco ementitum colorem amet; sanguine et viribus niteat.’f 


* 1 To your expressions be attentive : but about your matter be sblicitous.’ 
f 4 A higher spirit ought to animate those who study eloquence. They ought to 
consult the health and soundness of the whole body, rather than bend their atten¬ 
tion to such trifling objects as paring the nails, and dressing the hair. Let orna¬ 
ment be manly and chaste, without effeminate gayety, or artificial colouring; let 
it shine with the glow of health and strength.’ 

2 I 



( 215 a ) 

QUESTION; 


Of what kinds of style did our au¬ 
thor treat in the last lecture? With 
relation to what, was style also consi¬ 
dered? Under what other character 
is he next to consider style ? Of simpli¬ 
city, when applied to writing, what is 
observed ? To what, chiefly, has this 
been owing; and what is, consequent¬ 
ly, necessary ? How many different ac¬ 
ceptations of it may we remark; and 
what is the first ? Repeat the precept 
of Horace, in reference to this. By 
what examples is the nature of this 
simplicity illustrated ? In this sense, it 
is the same with what ? What is the 
second acceptation in which simplicity 
is taken ? What are simple thoughts ? 
Of refinement in writing, what is ob¬ 
served ? Thus, what should we natu¬ 
rally say ? In these two senses, to what 
has simplicity no proper relation ? To 
what does simplicity, in the third sense, 
stand opposed? What illustration of 
this is given ? With what does simple 
style, in this sense, coincide ; and what 
follows? What does simplicity, in the 
fourth sense, particularly respect ? 
From what is simplicity, in this, quite 
different; and with what is it compati¬ 
ble ? How is this remark illustrated ? 
To what does this simplicity stand op¬ 
posed ; and what is it considered ? How 
does a writer of simplicity express him¬ 
self? How does Horace describe it ? Of 
his expression, what is observed; and 
in his style, what do you see ? Of his 
expression, figures, and fancy, what is 
remarked ? What, also, is not incon¬ 
sistent with this character of style; 
and why ? What says Cicero ? What 
is the great advantage of simplicity of 
style ? What disadvantages have more 
studied and artificial manners of wri¬ 
ting ? But reading an author of simpli¬ 
city, is like what ? By what French 
term is the highest degree of this sim¬ 
plicity expressed ? What does it always 
express? What is the best account 
that can be given of it ? Where are 
many examples of it to be found; and 
how is this to be understood ? With re¬ 
spect to simplicity in general, what 
may we remark ? How does this hap¬ 
pen? Hence, what follows? Among 
the Greeks, and also among the Ro¬ 
mans, what individuals were distin¬ 
guished for it? Repeat the passage 
here introduced from Terence’s Andria ? 
Of this passage, what is observed? 
What shall we next consider ? What is 


1-~—j-,- r rrvi_ 


ner; and how has he long been ad¬ 
mired ? Of his eloquence, what is ob¬ 
served ; and why ? What is said of his 
style ? But notwithstanding these de¬ 
fects, what will ever recommend him 
to high regard; and as what? What^ 
was before observed on simplicity of 
manner ? But how far may this sim¬ 
plicity sometimes be carried ? In sim¬ 
plicity, how does Sir William Temple 
compare with Tillotson ? Of his style 
and maimer, what is observed; and on 
his style, what is stamped ? What ef¬ 
fect is produced in reading his works ? 
How may he be classed ? Of Mr. Ad¬ 
dison’s style, what is observed; and, 
therefore, what follows ? Of his perspi¬ 
cuity, purity, and precision, and also of 
the construction of his sentences, what 
is remarked ? How is he in figura¬ 
tive -language; and what is said of 
his manner? By what is he particu¬ 
larly distinguished? Of his manner, 
what is observed; and what recom¬ 
mends him highly ?, If in any thing, in 
what does he fail; and what is the 
consequence ? From what does it ap¬ 
pear that his merit has not always 
been seen in its true light; and what 
illustration is given ? Why is one never 
tired of reading such authors as those 
whose characters our author has been 
giving ? Of the charm of simplicity in 
an author of real genius, what is ob¬ 
served? Hence, what follows? What 
examples are given ? What is the ef¬ 
fect of simplicity in grave and solemn 
writings? Accordingly, of what wri¬ 
tings has this often been remarked to 
be the prevailing character; and why ? 
Of what is Lord Shaftesbury a re¬ 
markable example? Were it not for 
what, might his works be read with 
profit, for the moral philosophy which 
they cont ain ? Of his language, and of 
his sentences, what is observed ? What 
is the effect of all this ? What is his 
capital fault? How is this remark il¬ 
lustrated ? Of his figures and orna¬ 
ments of every kind, what is observed ? 
Of him, what is most wonderful ? To 
what degree did he possess delicacy 
and refinement of taste ? But what re¬ 
mark follows ? Of his wit and raillery, 
what is observed ? 

From the account given of Lord 
Shaftesbury’s manner, what may ea¬ 
sily be imagined? "What remark fol¬ 
lows ? In whom is this fully exemplifi¬ 
ed ; and what is said of him ? After all 


™an-1 that has been said, what is it necess^- 





QUESTIONS. 


215 b 


LECT. XIX.] 

ry to observe ? From what may one be 
free, and not have merit? What does 
the beautiful simplicity suppose? In 
this case, what is the crowning orna¬ 
ment ; and what is its effect ? But if 
mere unaffectedness were sufficient to 
constitute the beauty of style, what 
consequence would follow? And ac¬ 
cordingly, with what do we frequently 
meet ? Between what, therefore, must 
we distinguish ? What different effects 
do they produce? To mention what, 
does our author now proceed ? What 
does this always imply ; and with what 
is it not inconsistent? But from what, 
in its predominant character, is it dis¬ 
tinguishable? Describe it. To what 
does it belong; and from whom is it 
expected ? W T here do we find a perfect 
example of it ? Who, among English 
writers, has the most of this character? 
For what was he, by nature, formed; 
and accordingly, what follows? With 
what does he abound; and of his copi¬ 
ousness, what is observed? What re¬ 
mark follows ? Of his sentences, what 
is observed ? In the choice of his words, 
and in the exact construction of his 
sentences, what is observed? Under 
what circumstances would his merit, 
as a writer, be very considerable? 
But, what follows ? Why will our au¬ 
thor no longer insist on the different 
manners of writers, or the general cha¬ 
racters of style ? How is this illustrated 
from conceited writers? In whatever 
class we rank it, what is said of it ? 
Under the general heads, which has 
been considered, what has been done? 
From what has been said on this sub¬ 
ject, what may be inferred; and why ? 
Here, for what must room be left? 
What remark follows; and how is it 
illustrated ? But for what can no pre¬ 
cise rule be given ? To conclude these 
dissertations upon style in what man¬ 
ner, will be more to our purpose ? What 
is the first direction given for this pur¬ 
pose? How is the necessity of this di¬ 
rection illustrated? On the intimate 
connexion between the style and 
thoughts of a good writer, what has 
several times been hinted ? How is this 
illustrated ? What, then, may we be 
assured, is a capital rule, as to style ? 
Generally speaking, what are the best 
and most proper expressions ? Repeat 
what Quintilian says on this subject. 
In the second place, in order to form a 
good style, what is indispensably ne¬ 
cessary? What remark follows? At 
the same time, what, is observed? 


W T hat will be the effect of writing fre¬ 
quently, carelessly and hastily; and 
what remarks follow ? What says 
Quintilian, with the greatest reason ? 
What must we, however, observe ; and 
why ? Why must a more severe ex¬ 
amination of these be left to correction? 
What disposition should we, for a short 
time, make of what we have written ? 
Then is the season for what ? Of the 
Limce Labor , what is observed ? In 
the third place, with respect to the as¬ 
sistance that is to be gained from the 
writings of others, what is obvious? 
Why is this requisite ? In reading au¬ 
thors with a view to style, to what 
should attention be given ? In acquir¬ 
ing a proper style, what exercise is 
very useful ? By that, what does our 
author mean ? What will be the effect 
of such an exercise ? But, in the fourth 
place, what caution is given ? Of this, 
what is observed? What man will 
never become a good writer or speak¬ 
er ? What should we particularly 
avoid ? What is the effect of such a 
habit; and what is infinitely better ? 
On these heads, to do what is every 
student of oratory advised ? In the fifth 
place, what is an obvious, but material 
rule, with respect to style ? How is the 
necessity of this rule fully illustrated ? 
When we begin to write or speak, what; 
ought we previously to fix in our minds? 
What must we sacrifice to this ? In the 
last place, what admonition is given ? 
What says the Roman critic on this 
subject ? Why is this direction, at pre¬ 
sent, particularly necessary ? How is 
this Pemark fully illustrated ? To what 
is the public now much accustomed ? 
What remark follows ? What says the 
writer whom our author has so often 
quoted ? 

______ 

1. Simplicity of style. 

a. Simplicity of composition. 

b. Simplicity of thought. 

c. Simplicity in opposition to too much 
ornament. 

d. Simplicity in the expression. 

a. Instances among the ancients and 
the moderns. 

2 The vehement style. 

3. Directions for attaining a good style. 

a. We should study clear ideas on the 
subject. 

b. We should compose frequently. 

c. We should be familiar with the best 
authors. 

d. We should avoid servile imitation. 

e. We should adapt our style to the sub¬ 
ject. 

f. We should attend less to our style 
than to our thoughts 





( 216 ) 

LECTURE XX* 



CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE OF MR. 
ADDISON, IN No. 411 OF THE SPECTATOR. 

I have insisted fully on the subject of language and style, both 
because it is, in itself, of great importance, and because it is more 
capable of being ascertained by precise rule, than several other parts 
of composition. A critical analysis of the style of some good au¬ 
thor will tend further to illustrate the subject; as it will suggest ob¬ 
servations which I have not had occasion to make, and will show, in 
the most practical light, the use of those which I have made. 

Mr. Addison is the author whom I have chosen for this purpose. 
The Spectator, of which his papers are the chief ornament, is a book 
which is in the hands of every one, and which cannot be praised too 
highly. The good sense, and good writing, the useful morality, and 
the admirable vein of humour which abound in it, render it one of 
those standard books which have done the greatest honour to the 
English nation. I have formerly given the general character of Mr. 
Addison’s style and manner, as natural and unaffected, easy and polite, 
and full of those graces which a flowery imagination diffuses over wri¬ 
ting. At the same time, though one of the most beautiful writers in 
the language, he is not the most correct; a circumstance which ren¬ 
ders his composition the more proper to be the subject of our pre¬ 
sent criticism. The free and flowing manner of this amiable writer 
sometimes led him into inaccuracies, which the more studied cir¬ 
cumspection and care of far inferior writers have taught them to 
avoid. Remarking his beauties, therefore, which I shall have fre¬ 
quent occasion to do, as I proceed, I must also point out his negli¬ 
gences and defects. Without a free, impartial discussion,of both the 
faults and beauties which oec4r in his composition, it is evident, this 
piece of criticism would be of no service; and, from the freedom 
which I use in criticising Mr. Addison’s style, none can imagine that 
I mean to depreciate his writings, after having repeatedly declared 
the high opinion which I entertain of them. The beauties of this 
author are so many, and the general character of his style is so ele¬ 
gant and estimable, that the minute imperfections I shall have occa¬ 
sion to point out, are but like those spots in the sun,which may be 
discovered by the assistance of art, but which have no effect in ob¬ 
scuring its lustre. It is, indeed, my judgment, that what Quintilian 
applies to Cicero, 6 Ille se profecisse sciat, cui Cicero valde place- 
bit,’ may, with justice, be applied to Mr. Addison; that to be high¬ 
ly pleased with his manner of writing, is the criterion of one’s having 
acquired a good taste in English style. The paper on which we are 
now to enter, is No. 411, the first of his celebrated Essays on the 
Pleasures of the Imagination, in the sixth volume of the Spectator 
It begins thus: 


217 


lect. xx.] CRITICAL EXAMINATION, &c. 

4 Our sight is the most perfect, and most delightful, of all our 
senses. ’ 

This is an excellent introductory sentence. It is clear, precise, 
and simple. The author lays down, in a few plain words, the propo¬ 
sition which he is going to illustrate throughout the rest of the para¬ 
graph. In this manner, we should always set out. A first sentence 
should seldom be a long, and never an intricate orte. 

He might have said, < Our sight is the most perfect, and the most de¬ 
lightful. ’ But he has judged better, in omitting to repeat the article 
the. For the repetition of it is proper, chiefly when we intend to 
point out the objects of which we speak, as distinguished from, or 
contrasted with, each other; and when we want that the reader’s at¬ 
tention should rest on that distinction. For instance; had Mr. Ad¬ 
dison intended to say, that our sight is at once the most delightful , 
and the most useful , of all our senses, the article might then have 
been repeated with propriety, as a clear and strong distinction would 
have been conveyed. But,as between perfect and delightful there is 
less contrast, there was no occasion for such repetition. It would 
have had no other effect, but to add a word unnecessarily to the sen¬ 
tence. He proceeds: 4 

‘ It fills the mind with the largest variety of ideas, converses with 
its objects at the greatest distance, and continues the longest in action, 
without being tired or satiated with its proper enjoyments.’ 

This sentence deserves attention, as remarkably harmonious, and 
well constructed. It possesses, indeed, almost all the properties of a 
perfect sentence. It is entirely perspicuous. It is loaded with no 
superfluous or unnecessary words. F or, tired or satiated, towards the 
end of the sentence, are not used for synonymous terms. They con¬ 
vey distinct ideas, and refer to different members of the period; 
that this sense continues the longest in action without being tired, 
that is, without being fatigued with its action; and also, without being 
satiated wit hits proper enjoyments. That quality of a good sentence, 
which I termed its unity, is here perfectly preserved. It is our 
sight of which he speaks. This is the object carried through the 
sentence, and presented to us, in every member of it, by those verbs, 
fills, converses, continues , to each of which it is clearly the nomina¬ 
tive. Those capital words are disposed of in the most proper places; 
and that uniformity is maintained in the construction of the sentence, 
which suits the unity of the object. 

Observe, too, the music of the period ; consisting of three mem¬ 
bers, each of which, agreeable to a rule I formerly mentioned, grows 
and rises above the other in sound, till the sentence is conducted, at 
last, to one of the most melodious closes which our language admits; 
without being tired or satiated with its proper enjoyments. Enjoy¬ 
ments is a word of length and dignity, exceedingly proper for a close 
which is designed to be a musical one. The harmony is the more hap¬ 
py, as this disposition of the members of the period which suits the 
sound so well, is no less just and proper with respect to the sense. It 
follows the order of nature. First, we have the variety of objects 

28 


£18 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [lect. xx. 

mentioned, which sight furnishes to the mind; next, we have the 
action of sight on those objects; and lastly, we have the time and 
continuance of its action. No order could be more natural and 
happy. 

This sentence has still another beauty. It is figurative, without' 
being too much so for the subject. A metaphor runs through it. 
The sense of sight is, in some degree, personified. We are told of 
its conversing with its objects; and of its not being tired or satiated 
with its enjoyments; all which expressions are plain allusions to the 
actions and feelings of men. This is that slight sort of personifica¬ 
tion which, without any appearance of boldness, and without elevat¬ 
ing the fancy much above its ordinary state, renders discourse 
picturesque, and leads us to conceive the author’s meaning more 
distinctly, by clothing abstract ideas, in some degree, with sensible 
colours. Mr. Addison abounds with this beauty of style beyond 
most authors; and the sentence which we have been considering, is 
very expressive of his manner of writing. There is no blemish in 
it whatever, unless that a strict critic might perhaps object, that the 
epithet large , which he applies to variety—the largest variety of 
ideas, is an epithet more commonly applied to extent than to num¬ 
ber. It is plain, that he here employed it to avoid the repetition of 
the word great, which occurs immediately afterwards. 

( The sense of feeling can, indeed, give us a notion of extension, 
shape, and all other ideas that enter at the eye, except colours; 
but, at the same time, it is very much straitened and confined in 
its operations, to the number, bulk, and distance of its particular 
objects.’ 

This sentence is by no means so happy as the former. It is, in¬ 
deed, neither clear nor elegant. Extension and shape can, with 
no propriety, be called ideas ; they are properties of matter. Nei¬ 
ther is it accurate, even according to Mr. Locke’s philosophy, (with 
which our author seems here to have puzzled himself,) to speak of 
any sense giving us a notion of ideas ; our senses gi ve us the ideas 
themselves. The meaning would have been much more clear, if 
the author had expressed himself thus : ‘ The sense of feeling can, 
indeed, give us the idea of extension, figure, and all the other 
properties of matter which are perceived by the eye, except co¬ 
lours.’ r 

The latter part of the sentence is still more embarrassed. For 
what meaning can we make of the sense of feeling, being confined 
m its operation, to the number , bulk, and distance, of its particular 
objects! Surely, every sense is confined, as much as the sense of 
feeling, to the number, bulk, and distance of its own objects 
Sight and feeling are, in this respect, perfectly on a level; neither 
of them can extend beyond its own objects. The turn of expres¬ 
sion is so inaccurate here, that one would be apt to suspect two words 
to have been omitted m the printing, which were originally in Mr. 
Addison s manuscript; because the insertion of them would render the 
sense much more intelligible and clear. These two words are, with 
9 ** * 7S very much straitened and confined, in its operations . 


219 


lect. XX.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 411. 

with regard to the number , bulk , and distance of its particular ob¬ 
jects. The meaning then would be, that feeling is more limited 
than sight in this respect; that it is confined to a narrower circle, to 
a smaller number of objects. 

The epithet particular, applied to objects , in the conclusion of the 
sentence, is redundant, and conveys no meaning whatever. Mr. 
Addison seems to have used it in place of peculiar , as indeed he 
does often in other passages of his writings. But particular and pe¬ 
culiar , though they are too often confounded, are words of dif¬ 
ferent import from each other. Particular stands opposed to gene¬ 
ral; peculiar stands opposed to what is possessed in common with 
others. Particular , expresses what, in the logical style, is called 
species; peculiar , what is called differentia. Its peculiar objects. 
would have signified, in this place, the objects of the sense of feel¬ 
ing, as distinguished from the objects of any other sense; and 
would have had more meaning than its particular objects ; though, 
in truth, neither the one nor the other epithet was requisite. It was 
sufficient to have said simply, its objects. 

‘Our sight seems designed to supply all these defects, and may 
be considered as a more delicate and diffusive kind of touch, that: 
spreads itself over an infinite multitude of bodies, comprehends 
the largest figures, and brings into our reach some of the most re¬ 
mote parts of the universe.’ 

Here again the author’s style returns upon us in all its beauty. 
This is a sentence distinct, graceful, well arranged, and highly mu¬ 
sical. In the latter part of it, it is constructed with three members, 
which are formed much in the same manner with those of the second 
sentence, on which I bestowed so much praise. The construction is 
so similar, that if it had followed immediately after it, we should 
have been sensible of a faulty monotony. But the interposition of 
another sentence between them, prevents this effect. 

‘It is this sense which furnishes the imagination with its ideas; 
so that by the pleasures of the imagination or fancy, (which I shall 
use promiscuously,) I here mean such as arise from visible objects, 
either when we have them actually in our view; or when we call 
up their ideas into our minds by paintings, statues, descriptions, 
or any the like occasion.’ 

In place of, It is this sense which furnishes, the author might have 
said more shortly, This sense furnishes. But the mode of expres¬ 
sion which he has used, is here more proper. This sort of full and 
ample assertion, it is this which , is fit to be used when a proposition 
of importance is laid down, to which we seek to call the reader’s 
attention. It is like pointing with the hand at the object of which 
we speak. The parenthesis in the middle of the sentence, which 
I shall use promiscuously , is not clear. He ought to have said, 
terms which I shall use promiscuously; as the verb use relates not to 
the pleasures of the imagination, but to the terms of fancy and 
imagination, which he was to employ as synonymous. Any the 
like occasion. T<5 call a painting or a statue an occasion , is not a hap¬ 
py expression, nor is it very proper to speak of calling up ideas by 


220 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OP [lect. xx, 

occasions. The common phrase, any such means, would have been 
more natural. 

‘ We cannot indeed have a single image in the fancy, that did 
not make its first entrance through the sight; but we have the 
power of retaining, altering, and compounding those images which 
we have once received, into all the varieties of picture and vision 
that are most agreeable to the imagination; for, by this faculty, a 
man in a dungeon is capable of entertaining himself with scenes 
and landscapes more beautiful than any that can be found in the 
whole compass of nature.’ 

It may be of use-to remark, that in one member of this sentence, 
there is an inaccuracy in syntax. It is very proper to say, altering 
and compounding those images which we have once received, into all 
the varieties ofpicture and vision. But we can with no propriety say, 
retaining them into all the varieties; and yet, according to the man 
ner in which the words are ranged, this construction is unavoidable. 
For retaining, altering, and compounding, are participles, each of 
which equally refers to, and governs, the subsequent noun, those 
images; and that noun again is necessarily connected with the fol¬ 
lowing preposition, into. This instance shows the importance of 
carefully attending to the rules of grammar and syntax; when so 
pure a writer as Mr. Addison could, through inadvertence, be guilty 
of such an error. The construction might easily have been recti¬ 
fied, by disjoining the participle retaining from the other two parti¬ 
ciples, in this way: ‘We have the power of retaining, altering, and 
compounding those images which we have once received; and of 
forming them into all the varieties of picture and vision. 5 The lat¬ 
ter part of the sentence is clear and elegant. 

‘ There are few words in the English language which are employ¬ 
ed in a more loose and uncircumscribed sense, than those of the 
fancy and the imagination.’ 

There are few words—ivhich are employed. It had been better, if 
our author here had said more simply, few words in the English 
language are employed. Mr. Addison, whose style is of the free and 
full, rather than the nervous kind, deals, on all occasions, in this 
extended sort of phraseology. But it is proper only when some as¬ 
sertion of consequence is advanced, and which can bear an empha¬ 
sis; such as that in the first sentence of the former paragraph. On 
other occasions, these little words, it is, and there are, ought to be 
avoided as redundant and enfeebling. Those of the fancy and the 
imagination. The article ought to have been omitted here. As he 
does not mean the powers of thefaiicy and the imagination, but the 
words only, the article certainly had no proper place; neither, in¬ 
deed, was there any occasion for the other two words, those of 
Better if the sentence had run thus: ‘ Few words in the English 
language are employed in a more loose and uncircumscribed sense, 
than fancy and imagination.’ 

‘ I therefore thought it necessary to fix and determine the notion 
of these two words, as I intend to make use of therfi in the thread of 


lect. xx.) THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 411. 


22 1 


my following speculations, that the reader may conceive rightly 
what is the subject which I proceed upon.’ 

Though,/?# and determine may appear synonymous words, yet a 
difference between them may be remarked, and they may be view¬ 
ed, as applied here, with peculiar delicacy. The author had just 
said, that the words of which he is speaking were loose and uncir- 
cumscribed. Fix relates to the first of these, determine to the last. 
We fix what is loose ; that is, we confine the word to its proper place, 
that it may not fluctuate in our imagination, and pass from one idea 
to another; and we determine what is uncircumscribed , that is, we as¬ 
certain its termini or limits, we draw the circle round it, that we may 
see its boundaries. For we cannot conceive the meaning of a word, 
or indeed of any other thing clearly, till we see its limits, and know 
how far it extends. These two words, therefore, have grace and 
beauty as they are here applied; though a writer, more frugal of 
words than Mr. Addison, would have preferred the single word 
ascertain, which conveys, without any metaphor, the import of them 
both. 

The notion of these words , is somewhat of a harsh phrase, at least 
not so commonly used, as the meaning of these ivords;—as I intend 
to make use of them in the thread of my speculations; this is plainly 
faulty. A sort of metaphor is improperly mixed with words in the 
literal sense. He might very well have said, as I intend to make 
use of them in my following speculations. This was plain language; 
but if he chose to borrow an allusion from thread , that allusion ought 
to have been supported; for there is no consistency in making use 
of them in the thread of speculations; and indeed, in expressing any 
thing so simple and familiar as this is, plain language is always to 
be preferred to metaphorical— the subject which I proceed upon, is an 
ungraceful close of a sentence; better the subject upon which I pro¬ 
ceed. 

‘I must therefore desire him to remember, that, by the plea¬ 
sures of the imagination, I mean only such pleasures as arise origi¬ 
nally from sight, and that I divide these pleasures into two kinds/ 

As the last sentence began with, 1 there fore thought it necessary to 
fix , it is careless to begin this sentence in a manner so very similar, 
I must therefore desire him to remember ; especially? as the small va¬ 
riation of using, on this account , or, for thisreason , in place of there¬ 
fore, would have amended the style. When he says, I mean only 
such pleasures, it may be remarked, that the adverb only is notin 
its proper place. It is not intended here to qualify the word mean> 
but such pleasures; and therefore should have been placed in as close 
a connexion as possible with the word which it limits or qualifies. 
The style becomes more clear and neat, when the words are arrang¬ 
ed thus; 4 By the pleasures of the imagination, I mean such plea¬ 
sures only as arise from sight/ 

4 My design, being first of all, to discourse of those primary plea¬ 
sures of the imagination, which entirely proceed from such objects 
as are before our eyes; and, in the next place, to speak of those 
secondary pleasures of the imagination, which flow from the ideas 


CRITICAL EXAMINATION OP [lect. xx. 


222 

of visible objects, when the objects are not actually before the eye, 
but are called up into our memories, or formed into agreeable 
visions of things, that are either absent or fictitious.’ 

It is a great rule in laying down the division of a subject, to study 
neatness and brevity as much as possible. The divisions are then 
more distinctly apprehended, and more easily remembered. This 
sentence is not perfectly happy in that respect It is somewhat 
clogged by a tedious phraseology. My design being first of all , to 
discourse-in the next place to speak of-such objects as are before our 
eyes-things that are either absent or fictitious. Several words might 
have been spared here; and the style made more neat and compact. 

‘The pleasures of the imagination, taken in their full extent, are 
not so gross as those of sense, nor so refined as those of the under¬ 
standing.’ 

This sentence is distinct and elegant. 

‘ The last are indeed more preferable, because they are founded 
on some new knowledge or improvement in the mind of man: yet it 
must be confessed, that those ofthe imagination are as great and as 
transporting as the other.’ 

In the beginning of this sentence, the phrase more preferable , is 
such a plain inaccuracy, that one wonders how Mr. Addison should 
have fallen into it; seeing preferable , of itself, expresses the compara¬ 
tive degree, and is the same with more eligible, or more excellent. 

I must observe farther, that the proposition contained in the last 
member of this sentence, is neither clear nor neatly expressed— it 
must be confessed, that those of the imagination are as great and as 
transporting as the other. I n the former sentence, he had compared 
three things together; the pleasures of the imagination, those of sense, 
and those of the understanding. In the beginning of this sentence, 
he had called the pleasures of the understanding the last ; and he 
ends the sentence, with observing, that those of the imagination are 
as great and transporting as the other. Now, besides that the other 
makes not a proper contrast with the last , he leaves it ambiguous, 
whether, by the other , he meant the pleasures of the understanding, 
or the pleasures of the sense; for it may refer to either, by the con¬ 
struction; though, undoubtedly, he intended that it should refer to 
the pleasures of the understanding only. The proposition reduced 
to perspicuous language, runs thus: ‘ Yet it must be confessed, that 
the pleasures of the imagination, when compared with those of the 
understanding, are no less great and transporting.’ 

‘ A beautiful prospect delights the soul as much as a demonstration; 
and a description in Homer has charmed more readers than a chap¬ 
ter in Aristotle.’ 

This is a good illustration of what he had been asserting, and is 
expressed with that happy and elegant turn, for which our author is 
very remarkable. 

‘Besides, the pleasures of the imagination have this advantage 
above those of the understanding, that they are more obvious, and 
more easy to be acquired.’ 

This is also an unexceptionable sentence. 


223 


xect.xx.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 411. 

‘It is but opening the eye, and the scene enters. 5 

This sentence is lively and picturesque. By the gayety and brisk¬ 
ness which it gives the style, it shows the advantage of intermixing 
such a short sentence as this amidst a run of longer ones, which never 
fails to have a happy effect. I must remark, however, a small inac¬ 
curacy. A scene cannot be said to enter : an actor enters; but a 
scene appears or presents itself. 

i The colours paint themselves on the fancy, with very little atten¬ 
tion of thought or application of mind in the beholder. 5 

This is still beautiful illustration; carried on with that agreeable 
floweriness of fancy and style, which is so well suited to those plea¬ 
sures of the imagination, of which the author is treating. 

‘ We are struck, we know not how, with the symmetry of any 
thing we see, and immediately assent to the beauty of an object, 
without inquiring into the particular causes and occasions of it. 5 

There is a falling off here from the elegance of the former sen¬ 
tences. We assent to the truth of a proposition; but cannot so well 
be said to assent to the beauty of an object . Acknowledge would have 
expressed the sense with more propriety. The close of the sentence 
too is heavy and ungraceful— the particular causes and occasions of 
it, both particular and occasions , are words quite superfluous; and the 
pronoun it , is in some measure ambiguous, whether it refers to beau¬ 
ty or to object. It would have been some amendment to the style to 
have run thus: ‘We immediately acknowledge the beauty of an 
object, without inquiring into the cause of that beauty. 5 

‘ A man of a polite imagination is let into a great many pleasures 
that the vulgar are not capable of receiving. 5 

Polite is a term more commonly applied to manners or behaviour, 
than to the mind or imagination. There is nothing farther to be ob¬ 
served on this sentence, unless the use of that for a relative pro¬ 
noun, instead of which ; an usage which is too frequent with Mr. Addi¬ 
son. Which is a much more definitive word than that , being never 
employed in any other way than as a relative; whereas that is a word 
of many senses; sometimes a demonstrative pronoun, often a con¬ 
junction. In some cases we are indeed obliged to use that for a re¬ 
lative, in order to avoid the ungraceful repetition of which in the 
same sentence. But when we are laid under no necessity of this kind, 
which is always the preferable word, and certainly was so in this sen¬ 
tence. Pleasures which the vulgar are not capable of receiving , is 
much better than pleasures that the vulgar , fyc. 

‘ He can converse with a picture, and find an agreeable companion 
in a statue. He meets with a secret refreshment in a description ; 
and often feels a greater satisfaction in the prospect of fields and 
meadows,than another does in the possession. It gives him, indeed, 
a kind of property in every thing he sees ; and makes the most rude, 
uncultivated parts of nature,administer to his pleasures: so that he 
looks upon the world, as it were, in another light, and discovers in it 
a multitude of charms that conceal themselves from the generality 
of mankind.'* 


224 


CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [lect. xst. 


All this is very beautiful. The illustration is happy; and the style 
runs with the greatest ease and harmony. We see no labour, no 
stiffness or affectation; but an author writing from the native flow 
of a gay and pleasing imagination. This predominant character of 
Mr. Addison’s manner, far more than compensates all those little 
negligences which we are now remarking. Two of these occur in 
this paragraph. The first, in the sentence which begins with, it gives 
him indeed a kind of property. To this it, there is no proper antece¬ 
dent in the whole paragraph. In order to gather the meaning, we 
must look back as far as to the third sentence before, the first of the 
paragraph, which begins with, a man of a polite imagination. This 
phrase, polite imagination , is the only antecedent to which this it 
can refer; and even that is an improper antecedent, as it stands in 
the genitive case, as the qualification only of a man . 

The other instance of negligence, is towards the end of the para¬ 
graph, so that he looks upon the world , as it werein another light. By 
another light, Mr. Addison means, a light different from that in 
which other men view the world. But though this expression clear¬ 
ly conveyed this meaning to himself when writing, it conveys it 
very indistinctly to others; and is an instance of that sort of in¬ 
accuracy, into which, in the warmth of composition, every writer 
of a lively imagination is apt to fall; and which can only be remedied 
by a cool, subsequent review. As it were , is upon most occasions no 
more than an ungraceful palliative; and here there was not the least 
occasion for it, as he \yas not about to say any thing which required a 
softening of this kind. To say the truth, this last sentence, so that he 
looks upon the world, and what follows, had better been wanting alto¬ 
gether. It is no more than an unnecessary recapitulation of what 
had gone before ; a feeble adjection to the lively picture he had given 
of the pleasures of the imagination. The paragraph would have ended 
with more spirit at the words immediately preceding; the uncul¬ 
tivated parts of nature administer to his pleasures. 

‘ There are, indeed, but very few who know how to be idle and 
innocent, or have a relish of any pleasures that are not criminal; 
every diversion they take, is at the expense of some one virtue 
or another, and their very first step out of business is into vice or 
folly.’ 

Nothing can be more elegant, or more finely turned, than this sen¬ 
tence. It is neat, clear, and musical. We could hardly alter one 
word, or disarrange one member, without spoiling it. Few sentences 
are to be found more finished, or more happy. 

6 A man should endeavour, therefore, to make the sphere of his 
innocent pleasures as wide as possible, that he may retire into them 
with safety, and find in them such a satisfaction as a wise man would 
not blush to take.’ 

This also is a good sentence, and gives occasion to no material re¬ 
mark. 

‘ Of this nature are those of the imagination, which do not require 
such a bent of thought as is necessary to our more serious employ¬ 
ments, nor at the same time, suffer the mind to sink into that indo- 


eect. xx.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 411. 


225 


lence and remissness, which are apt to accompany our more sensual 
delights; but like a gentle exercise to the faculties, awaken them 
from sloth and idleness, without putting them upon any labour or dif- 
ficulty.’ 

The beginning of this sentence is not correct, and affords an in¬ 
stance of a period too loosely connected with the preceding one. Of 
this nature , says he, are those of the imagination . We might ask, 
of what nature? For it had not been the scope of the preceding sen¬ 
tence to describe the nature of any set of pleasures. He had said, 
that it was every man’s duty to make the sphere of his innocent plea¬ 
sures as wide as possible, in order that, within that sphere, he might 
find a safe retreat, and a laudable satisfaction. The transition is 
loosely made, by beginning the next sentence with saying, of this na¬ 
ture are those of the imagination. It had been better, if, keeping in 
view the governing object of the preceding sentence, he had said, 
‘This advantage we gain,’ or, ‘This satisfaction we enjoy, by means 
of the pleasures of imagination.’ The rest of the sentence is abun¬ 
dantly correct. 

‘ We might here add, that the pleasures of the fancy are more con¬ 
ducive to health than those of the understanding, which are worked 
out by dint of thinking, and attended with too violent a labour of the 
brain.’ 

On this sentence, nothing occurs deserving of remark, except that 
worked out by dint of thinking f\ s a phrase which borders too much 
ort vulgar and colloquial language, to be proper for being employed 
in a polished composition. 

‘ Delightful scenes, whether in nature, painting, or poetry, have a 
kindly influence on the body, as well as the mind, and not only serve 
to clear and brighten the imagination, but are able to disperse grief 
and melancholy, and to set the animal spirits in pleasing and agree¬ 
able motions. For this reason, Sir Francis Bacon, in his Essay up¬ 
on Health, has not thought it improper to prescribe to his reader a 
poem, or a prospect, where he particularly dissuades him from knot¬ 
ty and subtile disquisitions, and advises him to pursue studies that fill 
the mind with splendid and illustrious objects, as histories, fables, 
and contemplations of nature.’ 

In the latter of these two sentences, a member of the period is 
altogether out of its place; which gives the whole sentence a harsh 
and disjointed cast, and serves to illustrate the rules I formerly gave 
concerning arraogement. The wrong-placed member which I 
point at, is this: where he particularly dissuades him from, knotty 
and subtile disquisitions; these words should undoubtedly have been 
placed not where they stand, but thus: Sir Francis Bacon , in his Essay 
upon Health , where he particularly dissuades the reader from knot¬ 
ty and subtile speculations, has not thought it improper to prescribe 
to him, fyc. This arrangement reduces every thing into proper order. 

‘ I have in this paper, by way of introduction, settled the notion of 
those pleasures of the imagination, which are the subject of my pre¬ 
sent undertaking, and endeavoured, by several considerations, to re- 

29 


22 G 


CRITICAL EXAMINATION OP [lect. xxi. 


commend to my readers the pursuit of those pleasures; I shall, in 
my next paper, examine the several sources from whence these plea¬ 
sures are derived.’ 

These two concluding sentences afford examples of the proper 
collocation of circumstances in a period. I formerly showed, that 
it is often a matter of difficulty to dispose of them in such a manner, 
as that they shall not embarrass the pri ncipal subject of the sentence. 
In the sentences before us, several of these incidental circumstances 
necessarily come in— By way of introduction—by several consider¬ 
ations—in this paper—in the next paper. All which are with 
great propriety managed by our author. It will be found, upon trial, 
that there were no other parts of the sentence, in which they could 
have been placed to equal advantage. Had he said, for instance , i I 
have settled the notion, (rather, the meaning) of those pleasures of 
the imagination, which are the subject of my present undertaking, 
by way of introduction, in this paper, and endeavoured to recommend 
the pursuit of those pleasures to my readers, by several consider¬ 
ations,’ w r e must besensible, that the sentence, thus clogged with cir¬ 
cumstances in the wrong place, would neither have been so neat nor 
so clear, as it is by the present construction. 


LECTURE XXI. 



CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN No. 412 
OF THE SPECTATOR. 

The observations which have occurred in reviewing that paper of 
Mr. Addison’s which was the subject of the last lecture, sufficiently 
show, that in the writings of an author, of the most happy genius, 
and distinguished talents, inaccuracies may sometimes be found. 
Though such inaccuracies may be overbalanced by so many beau¬ 
ties, as render style highly pleasing and agreeable upon the whole, 
yet it must be desirable to every writer to avoid, as far as he can, in¬ 
accuracy of any kind. As the subject, therefore, is of importance, I 
have thought it might be useful to carry on this criticism throughout 
two or three subsequent papers of the Spectator. At the same time, 
I must intimate, that the lectures on these papers are solely intended 
for such as are applying themselves to the study of English style. I 
pretend not to give instruction to those who are already well ac¬ 
quainted with the powers of language. To them my remarks may 
prove unedifying; to some they may seem tedious and minute: but 
to such as have not yet made all the proficiency which they desire 
in elegance of style, strict attention to the composition and structure 
of sentences cannot fail to prove of considerable benefit; and though 
my remarks on Mr. Addison should, in any instance, be thought ill- 
founded, they will, at least, serve the purpose of leading them into 





227 


x,£ct. xxi.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 412. 

the train of making proper remarks for themselves.* I proceed, 
therefore, to the examination of the subsequent paper, No. 412. 

‘ I shall first consider those pleasures of the imagination, which 
arise from the actual view and survey of outward objects: and these, 

I think, all proceed from the sight of what is great, uncommon, or 
beautiful.’ 

This sentence gives occasion for no material remark. It is simple 
and distinct. The two words which he here uses, view and survey , 
are not altogether synonymous, as the former may be supposed to 
import mere inspection ; the latter, more deliberate examination. 
Yet they lie so near to one another in meaning, that, in the present 
case, any one of them, perhaps, would have been sufficient. The 
epithet actual, is introduced, in order to mark more strongly the 
distinction between what our author calls the primary pleasures of 
imagination, which arise from immediate view, and the secondary, 
which arise from remembrance or description. 

‘There may, indeed, be something so terrible or offensive, that 
the horror, or loathsomeness of an object, may overbear the 
pleasure which results from its novelty, greatness, or beauty; but 
Still there will be such a mixture of delight in the very disgust it 
gives us, as any of these three qualifications are most conspicuous 
and prevailing.’ 

This sentence must be acknowledged to be an unfortunate one. 
The sense is obscure and embarrassed, and the expression loose and 
irregular. The beginning of it is perplexed by the wrong position 
of the words something and object. The natural arrangement would 
have been, there may , indeed , be something in an object so terrible or 
offensive, that the horror or loathsomeness of it may overbear. These 
two epithets, horror or loathsomeness , are awkwardly joined toge¬ 
ther. Loathsomeness, is indeed a quality which may be ascribed to 
an object; but horror is not; it is a feeling excited in the mind. The 
language would have been much more correct, had our author said, 
there may, indeed, be something in an object so terrible or offensive ,, 
that the horror or disgust which it excites may overbear. The first 
two epithets, terrible or offensive, would then have expressed the 
qualities of an object; the latter, horror or disgust, the correspond¬ 
ing sentiments which these qualities produce in us. Loathsomeness 
was the most unhappy word he could have chosen: for to be loath¬ 
some, is o be odious, and seems totally to exclude any mixture of 
delight, which he afterwards supposes may be found in the object. 

* If there be readers who think any farther apology requisite for my adventuring 
to criticise the sentences of so eminent an author as Mr. Addison, 1 must take no¬ 
tice, that I was naturally led to it by the circumstances of that part of the king¬ 
dom where these lectures were read ; where the ordinary spoken language 
often differs much from what is used by good English authors. Hence it occurred 
to me, as a proper method of correcting any peculiarities of dialect, to direct stu¬ 
dents of eloquence to analyze and examine, with particular attention, the struc¬ 
ture of Mr Addison’s sentences. Those papers of the Spectator, which are the 
subject of the following lectures, were accordingly given out in exercise to stu¬ 
dents, to be thus examined and analyzed; and several of the observations which 
follow, both on the beauties and blemishes of this author, were suggested by the obser¬ 
vations given to me in consequence of the exercises prescribed. 



228 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OP [lect. xxf. 

In the latter part of the sentence there are several inaccuracies. 
When he says, there will be such a mixture of delight in the very 
disgust it gives us, as any of these three qualifications are most 
conspicuous. The construction is defective, and seems hardly 
grammatical. He meant assuredly to say, such a mixture of de¬ 
light as is proportioned to the degree in which any of these three 
qualifications are conspicuous. We know that there may be a 
mixture of pleasant and of disagreeable feelings excited by the same 
object; yet it appears inaccurate to say, that there is any delight in 
the very disgust. The plural verb, are , is improperly joined to 
any of these three qualifications; for as any is here used distribu¬ 
tive^, and means any one of these three qualifications , the cor¬ 
responding verb ought to have been singular. The order in which 
the two last words are placed, should have been reversed, and made 
to stand prevailing and conspicuous. They are conspicuous, be¬ 
cause they prevail. 

4 By greatness, I do not only mean the bulk of any single object, 
but the largeness of a whole view, considered as one entire piece.* 

In a former lecture, when treating of the structure of sentences, I 
quoted this sentence as an instance of the careless manner in which 
adverbs are sometimes interjected in the midst of a period. Only, 
as it is here placed, appears to be a limitation of the following verb, 
7nean. The question might be put, what more does he than only 
mean?As the author undoubtedly intended it to refer to the bulk of 
a single object , it would have been placed with more propriety after 
these words: Idonotmean thebulkof any single object only, but the 
largeness of a whole view. As the following phrase, considered as 
one entire piece, seems to be somewhat deficient, both in dignity and 
propriety, perhaps this adjection might have been altogether omit¬ 
ted, and the sentence have closed with fully as much advantage at 
the word view. 

( Such are the prospects of an open champaign country, a vast un¬ 
cultivated desert, of huge heaps of mountains, high rocks and preci¬ 
pices, or a wide expanse of waters, where we are not struck with the 
novelty, or beauty of the sight, but with that rude kind of magnifi¬ 
cence which appears in many of these stupendous works of nature.* 

This sentence, in the main, is beautiful. The objects presented 
are all of them noble, selected with judgment, arranged with pro¬ 
priety, and accompanied with proper epithets. We must, however 
observe, that the sentence is too loosely, and not very grammatically 
connected with the preceding one. He says, such are the pros¬ 
pects: such, signifies of that nature or quality; which necessarily 
presupposes some adjective, or word descriptive of a quality goin«- 
before, to which it refers. But, in the foregoing sentence, there is 
no such adjective. He had spoken of greatness in the abstract only; 
and therefore, such has no distinct antecedent to which we can refer 
it. The sentence would have been introduced with more gramma¬ 
tical propriety, by saying, to this class belong, or, under this head are 
ranged the prospects, &?c. The of which is prefixed to huge heaps 
oj mountains, is misplaced, and has, perhaps, been an error in the 


iect. xxi.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 412. 


229 


printing; as either all the particulars here enumerated should have 
had this mark of the genitive, or it should have been prefixed to 
none but the first. When, in the close of the sentence, the author 
speaks of that rude magnificence , which appears in many of these 
stupendous works of nature , he had better have omitted the word 
many , which seems to except some of them. Whereas, in his gene¬ 
ral proposition, he undoubtedly meant to include all the stupendous 
works he had enumerated; and there is no question that, in all of 
them, a rude magnificence appears. 

‘Our imagination loves to be filled with an object, or to grasp at 
any thing that is too big for its capacity. We are flung into a pleas¬ 
ing astonishment at such unbounded views; and feel a delightful still¬ 
ness and amazement in the soul, at the apprehension of them.’ 

The language here is elegant, and several of the expressions re¬ 
markably happy. There is nothing which requires any animadver¬ 
sion except the close, at the apprehension of them. Not only is this 
a languid, enfeebling conclusion of a sentence, otherwise beautiful, 
but the apprehension of views, is a phrase destitute of all propriety, 
and, indeed, scarcely intelligible. Had this adjection been entirely 
omitted, and the sentence been allowed to close with stillness and 
amazement in the soul , it would have been a great improvement. 
Nothing is frequently more hurtful to the grace or vivacity of a pe¬ 
riod, than superfluous dragging words at the conclusion. 

‘ The mind of man naturally hates every thing that looks like a 
restraint upon it, and is apt to fancy itself under a sort of confine¬ 
ment, when the sight is pent up in a narrow compass, and shortened 
on every side by the neighbourhood of walls or mountains. On the 
contrary, a spacious horizon is an image of liberty, where the eye 
has room to range abroad, to expatiate at large on the immensity of 
its views, and to lose itself amidst the variety of objects that offer 
themselves to its observation. Such wide and undetermined pros¬ 
pects are pleasing to the fancy, as the speculations of eternity, or 
infinitude, are to the understanding.’ 

Our author’s style appears here in all that native beauty which 
cannot be too much praised. The numbers flow smoothly, and 
with a graceful harmony. The words which he has chosen, carry 
a certain amplitude and fulness, well suited to the nature of the 
subject; and the members of the periods rise in a gradation accom¬ 
modated to the rise of the thought. The eye first ranges abroad; 
then expatiates at large on the immensity of its views ; and, at last, 
loses itself amidst the variety of objects that offer themselves to its 
observation. The fancy is elegantly contrasted with the under stand¬ 
ing, prospects with speculations , and wide and undetermined pros¬ 
pects , with speculations of eternity and infinitude. 

< But if there be a beauty or uncommonness joined with this 
grandeur, as in a troubled ocean, a heaven adorned with stars and 
meteors, or the spacious landscape cut out into rivers, woods, rocks, 
and meadows, the pleasure still grows upon us as it arises from more 
than a single principle.’ 

The article prefixed to beauty , in the beginning of this sentence, 
2 L 


230 


CRITICAL EXAMINATION OP [lect. xxi. 

might have been omitted, and the style have run, perhaps, to more 
advantage thus : hut if beauty, or uncommonness , he joined to this 
grandeur—a landscape cut out into rivers, woods , &c. seems un¬ 
seasonably to imply an artificial formation, and would have been 
better expressed by, diversified with rivers , woods, &c. 

‘ Every thing that is new or uncommon, raises a pleasure in the 
imagination, because it fills the soul with an agreeable surprise, 
gratifies its curiosity, and gives it an idea of which it was not before 
possessed. We are, indeed, so often conversant with one set of 
objects, and tired out with so many repeated shows of the same 
things, that whatever is new or uncommon contributes a little to 
vary human life, and to divert our minds, for a while, with the 
strangeness of its appearance. It serves us for a kind of refresh¬ 
ment, and takes off from that satiety we are apt to complain of in 
our usual and ordinary entertainments.’ 

The style in these sentences flows in an easy and agreeable man¬ 
ner. A severe critic might point out some expressions that would 
bear being retrenched. But this would alter the genius and cha¬ 
racter of Mr. Addison’s style. We must always remember,that 
good composition admits of being carried on under many different 
forms. Style must not be reduced to one precise standard. One 
writer may be as agreeable, by a pleasing diffuseness, when the 
subject bears, and his genius prompts it, as another by a concise 
and forcible manner. It is fit, however, to observe, that in the 
beginning of those sentences which we have at present before us, 
the phrase, arises a pleasure in the imagination , is unquestionably 
too flat and feeble, and might easily be amended, by saying, affords 
pleasure to the imagination ; and towards the end, there are two 
offs, which grate harshly on the ear, in that phrase, takes off from 
that satiety we are apt to complain of; where the correction is as 
easily made as in the other case, by substituting, diminishes that 
satiety of which we are apt to complain. Such instances show the 
advantage of frequent reviews of what we have written, in order to 
give proper correctness and polish to our language. 
f It is this which bestows charms on a monster, and makes even the 
imperfections of nature please us. It is this that recommends vari¬ 
ety, where the mind is every instant called off to something new, and 
the attention not suffered to dwell too long, and waste itself on any 
particular object. It is this,likewise, that improves what is great or 
beautiful, and makes it afford the mind a double entertainment.’ 

Still the style proceeds with perspicuity, grace, and harmony. The 
full and ample assertion, with which each of these sentences is intro¬ 
duced, frequent on many occasions with our author, is here proper 
and seasonable; as it was his intention to magnify, as much as pos¬ 
sible, the effects of novelty and variety, and to draw our attention to 
them. His frequent use of that, instead of which , is another pecu¬ 
liarity of his style; but, on this occasion in particular, cannot be 
much commended; as, it is this which, seems, in every view, to be 
better than, it is this that , three times repeated. I must, likewise, 
take notice, that the antecedent to, it is this, when critically consi- 


X.ECT. xxi.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 412. 231 


dered, is not altogether proper. It refers, as we discover by the sense, 
to whatever is new or uncommon. But as it is not good language to 
say, whatever is new bestows charms on a monster , one cannot avoid 
thinking that our author had done better to have begun the first of 
these three sentences, with saying,?’/ is novelty which bestows charms 
on a monster , &c. 

4 Groves, fields, and meadows, are at any season of the year plea¬ 
sant to look upon; but never so much as in the opening of the spring, 
when they are all new and fresh, with their first gloss upon them, and 
not yet too much accustomed and familiar to the eye.’ 

In this expression, never so much as in the opening of the spring , 
there appears to be a small error in grammar; for when the con¬ 
struction is filled upyit must be never so much pleasant. Had 
he, to avoid this, said, never so much so, the grammatical error would 
have been prevented, but the language would have been awkward. 
Better to have said, but never so agreeable as in the opening of the 
spring. We readily say, the eye is accustomed to objects, but to 
say, as our author has done at the close of the sentence, that ob¬ 
jects are accustomed to the eye , can scarcely be allowed in a prose 
composition. 

‘ For this reason, there is nothing that more enlivens a prospect 
than rivers, jetteaus, or falls of water, where the scene is perpetually 
shifting and entertaining the sight, every moment, with something 
that is new. We are quickly tired with looking at hills and vallies, 
where every thing c mtinues fixed and settled, in the same place and 
posture; but find our thoughts a little agitated and relieved at the sight 
of such objects as are ever in motion, and sliding away from beneath 
the eye of the beholder.’ 

The first of these sentences is connected in too loose a manner with 
that which immediately preceded it. When he says for this reason 
there is nothing that more enlivens , fyc. we are entitled to look for 
the reason in what he had just before said. But there we find no 
reason for what he is now going to assert, except that groves and 
meadows are most pleasant in the spring. We know that he has been 
speaking of the pleasure produced by novelty and variety, and our 
minds naturally recur to this, as the reason here alluded to: but his 
language does not properly express it. It is, indeed, one of the de¬ 
fects of this amiable writer, that his sentences are often too negli¬ 
gently connected with one another. His meaning, upon the whole, 
we gather with ease from the tenour of his discourse. Yet his negli¬ 
gence prevents his sense from striking us with that force and evidence, 
which a more accurate juncture of parts would have produced. Ba¬ 
ting this inaccuracy, these two sentences, especially the latter, are 
remarkably elegant and beautiful. The close, in particular, is un¬ 
commonly fine, and carries as much expressive harmony as the lan¬ 
guage can admit. It%e&ns to paint what he is describing, at once 
to the eye and the ear. Such objects as are ever in motion and slid¬ 
ing away from beneath the eye of the beholder. Indeed, notwith¬ 
standing those small errors, which the strictness of critical examina¬ 
tion obliges me to point out, it may be safely pronounced, that the 


232 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [lect. xxi. 

two paragraphs which we have now considered in this paper, the one 
concerninggreatness, and the other concerning novelty, are extreme¬ 
ly worthy of Mr. Addison, and exhibit a style, which they who can 
successfully imitate, may esteem themselves happy. 

4 But there is nothing that makes its way more directly to the soul 
than beauty, which immediately diffuses a secret satisfaction and com¬ 
placency through the imagination, and gives a finishing to any thing 
that is great or uncommon. The very first discovery of it strikes the 
mind with an inward joy, and spreads a cheerfulness and delight 
through all its faculties.* 

Some degree of verbosity may be here discovered, as phrases are re¬ 
peated, which are little more than the echo of one another; such as, 
diffusing satisfaction and complacency through the imagination — 
striking the mind with inward joy—spreading cheerfulness and 
delight through, all its faculties. At the same time, I readily admit 
that this full and flowing style, even though it carry some redundan¬ 
cy, is not unsuitable to the gayety of the subject on which the author 
is entering, and is more allowable here than it would have been on 
some other occasions. 

‘There is not,perhaps, any real beauty or deformity more in one 
piece of matter than another; because we might have been so made, 
that whatever now appears loathsome to us, might have shown itself 
agreeable; but we find, by experience, that there are several modi¬ 
fications of matter, which the mind, without any previous consider¬ 
ation, pronounces at first sight beautiful or deformed.’ 

In this sentence there is nothing remarkable, in any view, to draw 
our attention. We may observe only, that the word more, towards 
the beginning, is not in its proper place, and that the preposition in, 
is wanting before another. The phrase ought to have stood thus : 
Beauty or deformity in onepiece of matter , more than in another . 

‘Thus we see, that every different species of sensible creatures, 
has its different notions of beauty, and that each of them is most af¬ 
fected with the beauties of its own kind. This is no where more re¬ 
markable, than in birds of the same shape and proportion, when we 
often see the male determined in his courtship by the single grain or 
tincture of a feather, and never discovering any charms but in the 
colour of its species.’ 

Neither is there here any particular elegance or felicity of language. 
Different sense of beauty would have been a more proper expression 
to have been applied to irrational creatures, than as it stands, different 
notions of beauty. In the close of the second sentence, when the 
author says, colour of its species , he is guilty of considerable inaccu¬ 
racy in changing the gender, as he had said in the same sentence, 
that the male ivas determined in his courtship. 

There is a second kind of beauty, that we find in the several pro¬ 
ducts of art and nature, which does not work in the imagination with 
that warmth and violence, as the beauty that appears in our proper 
species, but. is apt, however, to raise in us a secret delight, and a 
hind of fondness for the places or objects in which we discover it.’ 


lect. xxi.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 412. 233 

Still, I am sorry to say, we find little to praise. As in his enuncia¬ 
tion of the subject, when beginning the former paragraph, he appeared 
to have been treating of beautyin general, in distinction from greatness 
or novelty; this second kind of beauty of which he here speaks, comes 
upon us in a sort of surprise, and it is only by degrees we learn, that 
formerly he had no more in view than the beauty which the different 
species of sensible creatures find in one another. Phis second kind 
of beauty, he says, we find in the several products of art and nature. 
He undoubtedly means, not in all, but in several of the products of 
art and nature , and ought so to have expressed himself; and in the 
place o ^products, to have used also the more proper wor&productions. 
When he adds, that this kind of beauty does not work in the bnagina- 
tion with that warmth and violence as the. beauty that appears in our 
proper species; the language would certainly have been more pure 
and elegant, if he had said, that it does not work upon the imagina¬ 
tion with such warmth and violence , as the beauty that appears in 
our own species. 

‘This consists either in the gayety or variety of colours, in the 
symmetry and proportion of parts, in the arrangement and disposi¬ 
tion of bodies, or in a just mixture and concurrence of all together. 
Among these several kinds of beauty, the eye takes most delight in 
colours.’ 

To the language, herfe, I see no objection that can be made. 

c We no where meet with a more glorious or pleasing show in na¬ 
ture, than what appears in the heavens at the rising and setting of the 
sun, which is wholly made up of those different stains of light, that 
show themselves in clouds of a different situation.’ 

The chief ground of criticism, on this sentence, is the disjointed 
situation of the relative which] grammatically, it refers to the rising 
and setting of the sun. But the author meant, that it should refer 
to the show which appears in the heavens at that time. It is too com¬ 
mon among authors, when they are writing without much care, to 
make such particles as this , and which , refer not to any particular 
antecedent word, but to* the tenour of some phrase, or perhaps the 
scope of some whole sentence, which has gone before. This prac¬ 
tice saves them trouble in marshalling their words, and arranging a 
period; but, though it may leave their meaning intelligible, yet it 
renders that meaning much less perspicuous, determined, and pre¬ 
cise, than it might otherwise have been. The error I have pointed 
out, might have been avoided by a small alteration in the construc¬ 
tion of the sentence, after some such manner as this: We nowhere 
meet with a more glorious andpleasing showin nature , than what is 
formed in the heavens at the rising and setting of the sun , by the dif¬ 
ferent stains of light which show themselves in clouds of different 
situations. Our author writes, in clouds of a different situation , by 
which he means, clouds that differ in situation from each other. But, as 
this is neither the obvious nor grammatical meaning of his words, it 
was necessary to change the expression, as I have done, into the plu¬ 
ral number. 


30 


234 


CRITICAL EXAMINATION. [lect. xxr. 


4 For this reason, we find the poets, who are always addressing 
themselves to the imagination, borrowing more of their epithets 
from colours than from any other topic.’ 

On this sentence nothing occurs, except a remark similar to what 
was made before, of loose connexion with the sentence which pre¬ 
cedes. For though he begins with saying, for this reason , the fore¬ 
going sentence, which was employed about the clouds and the sun, 
gives no reason for the general proposition he now lays down. The 
reason to which he refers, was given two sentences before, when he 
observed, that the eye takes more delight in colours than in any 
other beauty; and it was with that sentence that the present one 
should have stood immediately connected. 

4 As the fancy delights in every thing that is great, strange, or 
beautiful, and is still more pleased, the more it finds of these per¬ 
fections in the same object, so it is capable of receiving a new sa¬ 
tisfaction by the assistance of another sense.’ 

Another sense, here means, grammatically, another sense than fan- 
cy. For there is no other thing in the period to which this expres¬ 
sion, another sense, can at all be opposed. He had not, for some 
time, made mention of any sense whatever. He forgot to add, what 
was undoubtedly in his thoughts, another **nse than that of sight. 

4 Thus any continued sound, as the music of birds, or a fall of 
water, awakens every moment the mind of the beholder, and makes 
him more attentive to the several beauties of the place which lie 
before him. Thus, if there arises a fragrancy of smells or perfumes, 
they heighten the pleasures of the imagination, and make even the 
colours and verdure of the landscape appear more agreeable; for 
the ideas of both senses recommend each other, and are pleasanter 
together than when they enter the mind separately; as the different 
colours of a picture, when they are well disposed, set off one another, 
and receive an additional beauty from the advantage of their situa¬ 
tion.’ 

Whether Mr. Addison’s theory here be just or not, may be ques¬ 
tioned. A continued sound, such as that of a fall of water, is so far 
from awakening every moment the mind of the beholder , that no¬ 
thing is more likely to lull him asleep. It may, indeed, please the 
imagination, and heighten the beauties of the scene; but it produces 
this effect, by a soothing, not by an awakening influence. With re¬ 
gard to the style, nothing appears exceptionable. The flow, both 
of language and of ideas, is very agreeable. The author continues, 
to the end, the same pleasing train of thought, which had run through 
the rest of the paper; and leaves us agreeably employed in compar¬ 
ing together different degrees of beauty. 1 


( 235 ) 

LECTURE XXII 


CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN No. 413 
OF THE SPECTATOR. 

< Though in yesterday’s paper vve considered how every thing 
that is great, new, or beautiful, is apt to affect the imagination with 
pleasure, we must own, that it is impossible for us to assign the ne¬ 
cessary cause of this pleasure, because we know neither the nature 
of an idea, nor the substance of a human soul, which might help us 
to discover the conformity or disagreeableness of the one to the 
other; and therefore, for want of such a light, all that we can do in 
speculations of this kind, is, to reflect on those operations of the soul 
that are most agreeable, and to range, under their proper heads, 
what is pleasing or displeasing to the mind, without being able to 
trace out the several necessary and efficient causes from whence the 
pleasure or displeasure arises,.’ 

This sentence, considered as an introductory one, must be ac¬ 
knowledged to be very faulty. An introductory sentence should 
never contain any thing that can in any degree fatigue or puzzle the 
reader. When an author is entering on a new branch of his subject, 
informing us of what he has done, and what he proposes further 
to do, we naturally expect, that he should express himself in the 
simplest and most perspicuous manner possible. But the sentence 
now before us is crowded and indistinct: containing three separate 
propositions, which, as I shall afterwards show, required separate 
sentences to have unfolded them. Mr. Addison’s chief excellence, 
as a writer, lay in describing and painting. There he is great; but 
in methodising and reasoning, he is not so eminent As, besides 
the general fault of prolixity and indistinctness, this sentence con¬ 
tains several inaccuracies, I shall be obliged to enter into a minute 
discussion of its structure and parts; a discussion which to many 
readers will appear tedious, and which therefore they will naturally 
pass over; but which, to those who are studying composition, I 
hope may prove of some benefit. 

Though in yesterday’s paper we considered. The im port of though 
is, notwithstanding that. When it appears in the beginning of a 
senterice, its relative, generally, i yet; and it is employed to warn 
us, after we have been informed of some truth, that we are not to 
infer from it some other thing which we might perhaps have ex¬ 
pected to follow': as , 6 Though virtue be the only road to happiness, 
yet it does not permit the unlimited gratification of our desires.’ 
Now it is plain, that there was no such opposition between the sub¬ 
ject of yesterday’s paper, and what the author is now going to say, 
between his asserting a fact, and his not being able to assign the 
cause of that fact, as rendered the use of this adversative particle, 
though , either necessary or proper in the introduction. We const - 


236 


CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [lect. xxir. 

dered how every thing that is great, new.or beautiful, is apt to affect 
the imagination with pleasure. The adverb how signifies, either the 
means by which, or the manner in which, something is done. But 
in truth, neither one nor the other of these had been considered by our 
author. He had illustrated the fact alone, that they do affect the 
imagination with pleasure; and, with respect to the quomodo or the 
how , he is so far from having considered it, that he is just now 
going to show that it cannot be explained, and that we must rest 
contented with the knowledge of the fact alone, and of its purpose 
or final cause. We must own , that it is impossible for us to assign the 
necessary cause (he means, what is more commonly called the ef¬ 
ficient cause) of this pleasure, because we know neither the nature 
of an idea, nor the substance of a human soul. The substance of a 
human soul is certainly a very uncouth expression, and there ap¬ 
pears no reason why he should have varied from the word nature , 
which would have been applicable equally to idea and to soul. 

Which might help us, our author proceeds, to discover the confor¬ 
mity or disagreeableness of the one to the other. The which, at the 
beginning of this member of the period, is surely ungrammatical, 
as it is a relative, without any antecedent in all the sentence. It 
refers, by the construction, to the nature of an idea,or the substance 
of a human soul; but this is by no means the reference which the 
author intended. His meaning is, that knowing the nature of 
an idea, and the substance of a human soul, might help us to dis¬ 
cover the conformity or disagreeableness of the one to the other; 
and therefore the syntax absolutely required the word knowledge 
to have been inserted as the antecedent to which. I have before 
remarked, and the remark deserves to be repeated, that nothing is 
a more certain sign of careless composition, than to make such rela¬ 
tives as which, not refer to any precise expression, but carry a loose 
and vague relation to the general strain of what had gone before. 
When our sentences run into this form, we may be assured there is 
something in the construction of them that requires alteration. 
The phrase of discovering the conformity or disagreeableness of the 
one to the other is likewise exceptionable; for disagneableness nei¬ 
ther forms a proper contrast to the other word, conformity, nor ex¬ 
presses what the author meant here,(as far as any meaning can be gath¬ 
ered from his words) that is, a certain unsuitableness or want of con¬ 
formity to the nature of the soul. To say the truth, this member of 
the sentence had much better have been omitted altogether. The 
conformity or disagreeableness of an idea to the substance of a hu¬ 
man soul, is a phrase which conveys to the mind no distinct nor intel¬ 
ligible conception whatever. The author had before given a suffi¬ 
cient reason for his not assigning the efficient cause of those pleasures 
of the imagination, because we neither know the nature of our own 
ideas nor of the soul; and this farther discussion aboulrthe confor¬ 
mity or disagreeableness of the nature of the one, to the substance 
of the other, affords no clear nor useful illustration. 

dlnd therefore, the sentence goes on, for want of such a light, all 
that we can do in speculations of this kind, is, to reflect on those operar 


2 37 


LECT. xxir.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 413 . 

t ions of the soul that are most agreeable and to range under their pro 
per heads what is pleasing or displeasing to the mind. The two ex- 
pressions in the beginning of this member, therefore, and for want of 
such a light, evidently refer to the same thing, and are quite synony¬ 
mous. One or other of them, therefore, had better have been omit¬ 
ted, 1 n stead of to range under their proper heads , the language would 
have been smoother, if their had been left out. Without being able to 
trace out the several necessary and efficient causes from whence the 
pleasure or displeasure arises. The expression, from whence , though 
seemingly justified by very frequent usage, is taxed by Dr. Johnson 
as a vicious mode of speech ; seeing whence^ alone, has all the power of 
from whence , which therefore appears an unnecessary reduplication. 
I am inclined to think, that the whole of this last member of the 
sentence had better have been dropped. The. period might have 
closed with full propriety, at the words, pleasing or displeasing to the 
mind. All that follows, suggests no idea that had not been fully con¬ 
veyed in the preceding part of the sentence. It is a mere expletive 
adjection,which might be omitted not only withoutinjury to the mean¬ 
ing, but to the great relief of a sentence already labouring under the 
multitude of words. 

Having now finished the analysis of this long sentence, I am inclin¬ 
ed to be of opinion, that if, on any occasion, we can adventure to al¬ 
ter Mr. Addison’s style, it may be done to advantage here,by break¬ 
ing down this period in the following manner: £ In yesterday’s paper 
we have shown that every thing which is great, new, or beautiful, is apt 
to affect the imagination with pleasure. We must own, that it is im¬ 
possible for us to assign the efficient cause of this pleasure, because 
we know not the nature either of an idea, or of the human soul. All 
that we can do, therefore, in speculations of this kind, is to reflect on 
the operations of the soul which are most agreeable, and to range 
under proper heads, what is pleasing or displeasing to the mind.’ 
We proceed now to the examination of the following sentences. 

‘ Final causes lie more bare and open to our observation, as there 
are often a great variety that belong to the same effect; and these, 
though they are not altogether so satisfactory, are generally more use¬ 
ful than the other, as they give us greater occasion of admiring the 
goodness and wisdom of the first contriver.’ 

Though some difference might be traced between the sense 
of bare and open , yet, as they are here employed, they are so 
nearly synonymous, that one of them was sufficient. It would 
have been enough to have said, Final causes He more open to ob¬ 
servation. One can scarcely help observing here, that the obvious¬ 
ness of final causes does not proceed, as Mr. Addison supposes, from 
a variety of them concurring in the same effect, which is often not the 
case; but from our being able to ascertain more clearly, from our 
own experience, the congruity of a final cause with the circumstances 
of our condition; whereas the constituent parts of subjects, whence 
efficient causes proceed, lie for the most part beyond the reach of our 
faculties. But as this remark respects the thought more than the style, 
it is sufficient for us to observe,that when he says , a great variety that 
SM 


<238 


CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF Ilect. xxn, 

belong to the same effect , the expression, strictly considered, is not 
altogether proper. The accessory is properly said to belong to the 
principal; not the principal to the accessory. Now, an effect is con¬ 
sidered as the accessory or consequence of its cause; and therefore, 
though we might well say a variety of effects belong to the same 
cause, it seems not so proper to say, that a variety of causes belong 
to the same effect. 

‘One of the final causes of our delight in any thing that is great, 
may be this: The Supreme Author of our being has so formed the 
soul of man, that nothing but himself can be its last, adequate, and 
proper happiness. Because, therefore, a great part of our happiness 
must arise from the contemplation of his being, that he might give 
our souls a just relish of such contemplation, he has made them na¬ 
turally delight in the apprehension of what is great or unlimited/ 

The concurrence of two conjunctions, because therefore , forms 
rather a harsh and unpleasing beginning of the last of these senten¬ 
ces ; and, in the close, one would think, that the author might have 
devised a happier word than apprehension , to be applied to what is 
unlimited. But that I may not be thought hypercritical, I shall 
make no farther observation on these sentences. 

‘ Our admiration, which is a very pleasing motion of the mind, 
immediately rises at the consideration of any object that takes up a 
good deal of room in the fancy, and, by consequence, will improve 
into the highest pitch of astonishment and devotion, when we con¬ 
template his nature, that is neither circumscribed by time nor place, 
nor to be comprehended by the largest capacity of a created being. 

Here our author’s style rises beautifully along with the thought. 
However inaccurate he may sometimes be, when coolly philosophi¬ 
sing, yet, whenever his fancy is awakened by description, or his 
mind, as here, warmed with some glowing sentiment, he presently 
becomes great, and discovers, in his language, the hand of a master. 
Every one must observe, with what felicity this period is constructed. 
The words are long and majestic. The members rise one above an¬ 
other, and conduct the sentence, at last, to that full and harmonious 
close, which leaves upon the mind such an impression, as the author 
intended to leave, of something uncommonly great, awful, and mag¬ 
nificent. 

6 He has annexed a secret pleasure to the idea of any thing that is 
new or uncommon, that he might encourage us in the pursuit of 
knowledge, and engage us to search into the wonders of creation ; 
for every new idea brings such a pleasure along with it, as rewards 
the pains we have taken in its acquisition, and consequently, serves 
as a motive to put us upon fresh discoveries/ 

The language, in this sentence, is clear and precise: only, we 
cannot but observe, in this, and the two following sentences, which 
are constructed in the same manner, a strong proof of Mr. Addison’s 
unreasonable partiality to the particle that , in preference to which . 
Annexed a secret pleasure to the idea of any thing that is new or un¬ 
common , that he might encourage us. Here, the first that stands for 
a relative pronoun, and the next that, at the distance only of four 


239 


i»ect. xxii.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 413. 

Words, is a conjunction. This confusion of sounds serves to embar¬ 
rass style. Much better, sure, to have said, the idea of any thing 
which is new or uncommon that he might encourage. The expression 
with which the sentence concludes, a motive to put us upon fresh 
discoveries , is flat, and, in some degree, improper. He should have 
said, put its upon making fresh discoveries; or rather, serves as a 
motive inciting us to make fresh discoveries. 

‘ He has made every thing that is beautiful in our own species, 
pleasant, that all creatures might be tempted to multiply their kind, 
and fill the world with inhabitants; for,’tis very remarkable, that, 
wherever nature is crost in the production of a monster, (the result 
of any unnatural mixture) the breed is incapable of propagating its 
likeness, and of founding a new order of creatures; so that, unless 
all animals were allured by the beauty of their own species, genera¬ 
tion would be at an end, and the earth unpeopled. 5 

Here we must, however reluctantly, return to the employment of 
censure: for this is among the worst sentences our author ever 
wrote; and contains a variety of blemishes. Taken as a whole, it 
is extremely deficient in unity. Instead of a complete proposition, 
it contains a sort of chain of reasoning, the links of which are so ill 
put together, that it is with difficulty we can trace the connexion; 
and, unless we take the trouble of perusing it several times, it will 
leave nothing on the mind but an indistinct and obscure impression. 

Besides this general fault, respecting the meaning, it contains 
some great inaccuracies in language. First, God’s having made 
every thing which is beautiful in our species , (that is, in the hu¬ 
man species) pleasant, is certainly no motive for all creatures, for 
beasts, and birds, and fishes, to multiply their kind. What the author 
meant to say, though he has expressed himself in so erroneous a 
manner, undoubtedly was, ‘ In all the different orders of creatures, 
he has made every thing, which is beautiful in their own species, 
pleasant, that all creatures might be tempted to multiply their kind. 5 
The second member of the sentence is still worse. For it is very 
remarkable, that wherever nature is crost in the production of a 
monster,fyc. The reason which he here gives, for the preceding asser¬ 
tion, intimated by the casual particle for, is far from being obvious. 
The connexion of thought is not readily apparent, and would have re¬ 
quired an intermediate step, to render it distinct. But what does 
he mean, by nature being crost in the production of a monster? One 
might understand him to mean, 4 disappointed in its intention of 
producing a monster, 5 as when we say, one is crost in his pursuits, 
we mean, that he is disappointed in accomplishing the end which he 
intended. Had he said ,crost by the production of a monster, thesense^ 
would have been more intelligible. But the proper rectification of 
the expression would be to insert the adverb as, before the preposi¬ 
tion in, after this manner; wherever nature is crost, as in the produc¬ 
tion of a. monster. The insertion of this particle as, throws so much 
light on the construction of this member of the sentence, that I am 
very much inclined to believe, it had stood thus originally, in our 
author’s manuscript; and that the present reading is a typography 


240 


CRITICAL EXAMINATION OP [lect. xxis. 


cal error, which, having crept into the first edition of the Spectator, 
ran through all the subsequent ones. 

‘ In the last place, he has made every thing that is beautiful, in 
all other objects, pleasant, or rather has made so many objects 
appear beautiful, that he might render the whole creation more gay 
and delightful. He has given almost every thing about us the power 
of raising an agreeable idea in the imagination ; so that it is impossi¬ 
ble for us to behold his works with coldness or indifference, and to 
survey so many beauties without a secret satisfaction and compla¬ 
cency.’ 

The idea, here, is so just, and the language so clear, flowing, and 
agreeable, that, to remark any diffuseness which may be attributed 
to these sentences, would be justly esteemed hypercritical. 

‘ Things would make but a poor appearance to the eye, if we saw 
them only in their proper figures and motions: and what reason can 
we assign for their exciting in us, many of those ideas which are 
different from any thing that exists in the objects themselves, (for 
such are light and colours,) were it not to add supernumerary orna¬ 
ments to the universe, and make it more agreeable to the imagina¬ 
tion?’ 

Our author is now entering on a theory, which he is about to illus¬ 
trate, if not with much philosophical accuracy, yet, with great beauty 
of fancy, and glow of expression. A strong instance of his want of 
accuracy, appears in the manner in which he opens the subject. For 
what meaning is there in things exciting in us many of those ideas 
which are different from any thing that exists in the objects ? No 
one, sure, ever imagined that our ideas exist in the objects. Ideas, 
it is agreed on all hands, can exist no where but in the mind. What 
Mr. Locke’s philosophy teaches, and what our author should have said, 
is ^exciting in us ma ny ideas of qualities which are different from any 
thing that exists in the objects. The ungraceful parenthesis which 
follows, for such are light and colours , had far better have been 
avoided, and incorporated with the rest of the sentence, in this 
manner; £ exciting in us many ideas of qualities, such as light and 
colours, which are different from any thing that exists in the objects.’ 

‘ We are every where entertained with pleasing shows and ap¬ 
paritions. We discover imaginary glories in the heavens and in 
the earth, and see some of this visionary beauty poured out upon 
the whole creation; but what a rough unsightly sketch of nature 
should we be entertained with, did all her colouring disappear, and 
the several distinctions of light and shade vanish ? In short, our 
souls are delightfully lost and bewildered in a pleasing delusion; 
and we walk about like the enchanted hero of a romance, who sees 
beautiful castles, woods, and meadows; and, at the same time, 
hears the warbling of birds, and the purling of streams ; but, upon 
the finishing of some secret spell, the fantastic scene breaks up, and 
the disconsolate knight finds himself on a barren heath, or in a soli¬ 
tary desert.’ 

After having been obliged to point out several inaccuracies, I 
return wdth much more pleasure to the display of beauties, for 


ilect. xxii.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 413. 241 

which we have now full scope; for these two sentences are such as 
do the highest honour to Mr. Addison’s talents as a writer. Warm¬ 
ed with the idea he had laid hold of, his delicate sensibility to the 
beauty of nature, is finely displayed in the illustration of it. The 
style is flowing and full, without being too diffuse. It is flowery, 
but not gaudy; elevated, but not ostentatious. 

Amidst this blaze of beauties, it is necessary for us to remark one 
or two inaccuracies. When it is said,towards the close of the first of 
those sentences, wtiat a rough unsightly sketch of nature should we 
he entertained with, the preposition with should have been placed at 
the beginning, rather than at the end of this member; and the 
word entertained , is both improperly applied here, and carelessly 
repeated from the former part of the sentence. It was there em¬ 
ployed according to its more common use, as relating to agreeable 
objects. We are every where entertained withpleasing shows. Here 
it would have been more proper to have changed the phrase, and 
said, with what a rough unsightly sketch of nature should we he pre¬ 
sented. At the close of the second sentence, where it is said, the 
fantastic scene breaks up , the expression is lively, but not altogether 
justifiable. An assembly breaks up ; a scene closes or disappears. 

Excepting these two slight inaccuracies, the style, here, is not only 
correct, but perfectly elegant. The most striking beauty of the 
passage arises from the happy simile which the author employs, 
and the fine illustration which it gives to the thought. The enchant- 
ed hero, theheautiful castles,the fantastic scene, the secret spell, the 
disconsolate knight, are terms chosen with the utmost felicity, and 
strongly recall all those romantic ideas with which he intended to 
amuse our imagination. Few authors are more successful in their 
imagery than Mr. Addison; and few passages in his works, or in 
those of any author, are more beautiful and picturesque than that 
on which we have been commenting. 

6 It is not improbable, that something like this may be the state 
of the soul after its first separation, in respect of the images it will 
receive from matter; though, indeed, the ideas of colours are so 
pleasing and beautiful in the imagination, that it is possible the soul 
will not be deprived of them, but,perhaps, find them excited by 
some other occasional cause, as they are at present, by the dif¬ 
ferent impressions of the subtile matter on the organ of the sight/ 

As all human things, after having attained the summit, begin to 
decline, we must acknowledge that, in this sentence, there is a 
sensible falling off from the beauty of what went before. It is bro¬ 
ken and deficient in unity. Its parts are not sufficiently compacted. 
It contains, besides, some faulty expressions. When it is said, 
something like this may he the state of the soul, to the pronoun this, 
there is no determined antecedent; it refers to the general import 
of the preceding description, which, as I have several times remark¬ 
ed, always rendered style clumsy and inelegant, if not obscure— 
the state of the sout after its first separation, appears to be an incom¬ 
plete phrase, and first , seems an useless, and even an improper 


CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [lect. xxih. 


24.2 

word. More distinct if he had said,$/a/e of the soul immediately on 
its separation from the body. The adverb perhaps, is redundant, after 
having just before said, it is possible. 

1 1 have here supposed, that my reader is acquainted with that 
great modern discovery, which is at present universally acknow¬ 
ledged by all the inquirers into natural philosophy: namely, that 
light and colours, as apprehended by the imagination, are only ideas 
in the mind, and not qualities that have any existence in matter. 
As this is a truth which has been proved incontestably by many mo¬ 
dern philosophers, and te, indeed, one of the finest speculations in 
that science, if the English reader would see the notion explained 
at large, he may find it in the’eighth chapter of the second book of 
Mr. Locke’s Essay on the Human Understanding.’ 

In these two concluding sentences, the author, hastening to finish, 
appears to write rather carelessly. In the first of them, a manifest 
tautology occurs, when he speaks of what is universally acknowledg¬ 
ed by all inquirers. In the second, when he calls a truth which has 
been incontestably proved ; first, a speculation , and afterwards a no- 
turn , the language surely is not very accurate. When he adds, one of the 
finest speculations in that science, it does not,at first, appear what sci¬ 
ence he means. One would imagine, he meant to refer to modern phi¬ 
losophers ; for natural philosophy (to which, doubtless, he refers) 
stands at much too great a distance to be the proper or obvious an¬ 
tecedent to the pronoun that. The circumstance towards the close, 
if the English reader would see the notion explained at large, he 
may find it, is properly taken notice of by the author of the Elements of 
Criticism, as wrongly arranged,and is rectified thus: the English rea¬ 
der, if he would see the notion explained at large, may find it, fyc. 

In concluding the examination of this paper, we may observe, 
that though not a very long one, it exhibits a striking view both of 
the beauties, and the defects, of Mr. Addison’s style. It contains 
some of the best, and some of the worst sentences, that are to be 
found in his works. But upon the whole, it is an agreeable and 
elegant essay. 


LECTURE XXIII. 


CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN No. 414 
OF THE SPECTATOR. 

4 Ip we consider the works of nature and art, as they are qualified 
to entertain the imagination, we shall find the last very defective in 
comparison of the former; for though they may sometimes appea* 
as beautiful or strange, they can have nothing in them of that vast 
ness and immensity which afford so great an entertainment to the 
mind of the beholder.’ 

I had occasion formerly to observe, that an introductory sentence 
should always be short and simple, and contain no more matter than 





S.ECT. xxm.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 414. 243 

is necessary for opening the subject. This sentence leads to a re¬ 
petition of this observation, as it contains both an assertion and the 
proof of that assertion; two things which, for the most part, but espe- 
| cially at first setting out, are with more advantage kept separate. 
It would certainly have been better, if this sentence had contained 
only the assertion, ending with the word former \ and if a new one 
had then begun, entering on the proofs of nature's superiority over 
art, which is the subject continued to the end of the paragraph. 
The proper division of the period I shall point out, after having first 
made a few observations which occur on different parts of it. 

If we consider the works. Perhaps it might have been preferable, 
if our author had begun with saying, when we consider the works . 
Discourse ought always to begin, when it is possible, with a clear 
proposition. The if which is here employed, converts the sentence 
into a supposition, which is always in some degree entangling, and 
proper to be used only when the course of reasoning renders it ne¬ 
cessary. As this observation however may, perhaps, be consider¬ 
ed as over-refined, and as the sense would have remained the same 
in either form of expression, I do not mean to charge our author 
with any error on this account. We cannot absolve him from inac¬ 
curacy in what immediately follows —the ivorks of nature and art. 
It is the scope of the author throughout this whole paper, to com¬ 
pare nature and art together,and to oppose them in several views to 
each other. Certainly, therefore, in the beginning, he ought to 
have kept them as distinct as possible, by interposing the preposi¬ 
tion, and saying, the works of nature and of art. As the words stand 
at present, they would lead us to think that he is going to treat of 
these works, not as contrasted, but as connected; as united in form¬ 
ing one whole. When I speak of body and soul as united in the 
human nature, I would interpose neither article nor preposition be¬ 
tween them; 4 Man is compounded of soul and body.’ But the 
case is altered, if I mean to distinguish them from each other; then 
I represent them as separate, and say, 4 1 am to treat of the inter¬ 
ests of the soul, and of the body. 5 

Though they may sometimes appear as beautiful or strange. I can¬ 
not help considering this as a loose member of the period. It does 
not clearly appear at first what the antecedent is to they. In reading 
onwards, we see the works of art to be meant; but from the struc¬ 
ture of the sentence, they might be understood to refer to the former , 
as well as to the last. In what follows, there is a greater ambiguity— 
may sometimes appear as beautiful or strange. It is very doubtful in 
what sense we are to understand as, in this passage. For, according 
as it is accented in reading, it may signify, that they appear equally 
beautiful or strange, to wit, with the works of nature; and then it has 
the force of the Latin tarn: or it may signify no more than that they 
appear in the light of beautiful and strange; and then it has the force 
of the Latin tanquam , without importing any comparison. An ex¬ 
pression so ambiguous, is always faulty; and it is doubly so here; 
because, if the author intended the former sense, and meant (as 
seems most probable) to employ as for a mark of comparison, it was 


244 


CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [lect. xxin, 

necessary to have mentioned both the compared objects: whereas 
only one member of the comparison is here mentioned, viz. the 
works of art: and if he intended the latter sense, as was in that case 
superfluous and encumbering, and he had better have said simply, ap¬ 
pear beautiful or strange. The epithet strange , which Mr. Addison 
applies to the works of art, cannot be praised. Strange works , ap¬ 
pears not by any means a happy expression to signify what he here 
intends, which is new or uncommon. 

The sentence concludes with much harmony and dignity •, they can 
have nothing in them of that vast ness awl immensity which afford 
so great an entertainment to the mind of the beholder. There is 
here a fulness and grandeur of expression well suited to the subject; 
though, perhaps, entertainment is not quite the proper word forex¬ 
pressing the effect which vastness and immensity have upon the mind. 
Reviewing the observations that have been made on this period, it 
might, 1 think,with advantage, be resolved into two sentences, some¬ 
what after this manner: ‘ When we consider the works of nature 
and of art, as they are qualified to entertain the imagination, we 
shall find the latter very defective in comparison of the former 
The works of art may sometimes appear no less beautiful or uncom¬ 
mon than those of nature; but they can have nothing of that vast¬ 
ness and immensity which so highly transport the mind of the be¬ 
holder.’ 

‘ The one,’ proceeds our author in the next sentence,‘may be as 
polite and delicate as the other; but can never show herself so au¬ 
gust and magnificent in the design.’ 

The one and the other , in the first part of this sentence, must 
unquestionably refer to the works of nature and of art. For of these 
he had been speaking immediately before; and with reference to 
the plural word, works, had employed the plural pronoun they. 
But in the course of the sentence, he drops this construction ; and 
passes very incongruously to the personification of art— can never 
show herself. To render his style consistent, art, and not the works 
of art, should have been made the nominative in this sentence. 
Art may be as polite and delicate as nature, but can never show her¬ 
self. Polite is a term oftener applied to persons and to manners, than 
to things; and is employed to signify their being highly civilized. 
Polished, or refined, was the idea which the author had in view. 
Though the general turn of this sentence be elegant, yet, in order 
to render it perfect, I must observe, that the concluding words, in 
the design, should either have been altogether omitted, or somethnic 
should have been properly opposed to them in the preceding mem- 
ber of the period, thus: ‘ Art may, in the execution, be as polished 
and delicate as nature; but in the design, can never show herself so 
august and magnificent.’ 

‘ There is something more bold and masterly in the rough, care¬ 
less strokes of nature, than in the nice touches and embellishments 
of art.’ 

This sentence is perfectly happy and elegant: and carries, in all 
the expressions, that cur ios a felicit as, for which Mr. Addison is so 


LECT. XXIII.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 414. 245 

often remarkable. Bold and masterly , are words applied with the 
utmost propriety. The strokes of nature , are finely opposed to the 
touches of art; and the rough strokes to the nice touches ; the former, 
painting the freedom and ease of nature, and the other, the diminu¬ 
tive exactness of art; while both are introduced before us as differ¬ 
ent performers, and their respective merits in execution very justly 
contrasted with each other. 

4 The beauties of the most stately garden or palace lie in a nar¬ 
row compass; the imagination immediately runs them over, and 
requires something else to gratify her: but in the wide fields uf na¬ 
ture, the sight wanders up and down without confinement, and is 
fed with an infinite variety of images, without any certain stint or 
number.’ 

This sentence is not altogether so correct and elegant as the for¬ 
mer. It carries, however, in the main, the character of our author’s 
style; not strictly accurate, but agreeable, easy, and unaffected; 
enlivened too with a slight personification of the imagination, which 
gives a gayety to the period. Perhaps it had been better, if this 
personification of the imagination, with which the sentence is intro¬ 
duced, had been continued throughout, and not changed unneces¬ 
sarily, and even improperly, into sight , in the second member, which 
is contrary both to unity and elegance. It might have stood thus: 
the imagination immediately runs them over , and requires some - 
thing else to gratify her; but in the wide fields of nature , she wan¬ 
ders up and down without confinement. The epithet stately , which 
the author uses in the beginning of the sentence, is applicable with more 
propriety to palaces than to gardens. The close of the sentence, 
without any certain stint or number , may be objected to, as both 
superfluous and ungraceful. It might perhaps have terminated bet¬ 
ter in this manner : she is fed with an infinite variety of images\ 
and wanders up and down without confinement. 

6 For this reason, we always find the poet in love with a country 
life, where nature appears in the greatest perfection, and furnishes 
out all those scenes that are most apt to delight the imagination.’ 

There is nothing in this sentence to attract particular attention. 
One would think it was rather the country> than a country life, on 
which the remark here made should rest. A country life may be 
productive of simplicity of manners, and of other virtues: but it is 
to the country itself, that the properties here mentioned belong, of 
displaying the beauties of nature, and furnishing those scenes which 
delight the imagination. 

6 But though there are several of these wild scenes that are more 
delightful than any artificial shows, yet we find the works of nature 
still more pleasant, the more they resemble those of art; for in this 
case, our pleasure rises from a double principle; from the agreea¬ 
bleness of the objects to the eye, and from their similitude to other 
objects ; we are pleased, as well with comparing their beauties, as 
with surveying them, and can represent them to our minds either as 
copies or as originals. Hence it is, that we take delight in a pros¬ 
pect which is well laid out, and diversified with fields and meadows, 
2N 


24U 


CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF £lect. xxiii. 

woods and rivers; in those accidental landscapes of trees, clouds, 
and cities, that are sometimes found in the veins of marble, in the 
curious fretwork of rocks and grottos; and, in a word, in any thing 
that hath such a degree of variety and regularity as may seem the 
effect of design, in what we call the works of chance.’ 

The style in the two sentences which compose this paragraph, is 
smooth and perspicuous. It lies open in some places to criticism; 
but lest the reader should be tired of what he may consider as petty 
remarks, I shall pass over any which these sentences suggest; the 
rather, too, as the idea which they present to us of nature’s resem¬ 
bling art, of art’s being considered as an original, and nature as a 
copy, seems not very distinct nor well brought out, nor indeed very 
material to our author’s purpose. 

4 If the products of nature rise in value, according as they more 
or less resemble those of art, we may be sure that artificial works 
receive a greater advantage from the resemblance of such as are na¬ 
tural , because here the similitude is not only pleasant, but the pat¬ 
tern more perfect.’ 

It is necessary to our present design, to point out two considera¬ 
ble inaccuracies which occur in this sentence. If the products (he 
had better have said the productions) of nature rise in value accord¬ 
ing as they more or less resemble those of art. Does he mean, that 
these productions rise in value both according as they more resemble , 
and as they less resemble, those of art? His meaning undoubtedly 
is. that they rise in value only, according as they more resemble them : 
and, therefore, either of these words, or less, must be struck out, or 
the sentence must run thus— productions of nature rise or sink in va¬ 
lue, according as they more or less resemble . The present construc¬ 
tion of the sentence, has plainly been owing to hasty and careless 
writing. 

The other inaccuracy is towards the end of the sentence, and serves 
to illustrate a rule which I formerly gave, concerning the position 
of adverbs. The author sa v r s, because here the similitude is not only 
pleasant , but the pattern more perfect. Here, by the position of the 
adverb only, we are led to imagine that he is going to give some other 
property of the similitude, that it is not only pleasant, as he says, 
but more than pleasant; it is useful, or, on some account or other, 
valuable. Whereas, he is going to oppose another thing to the si¬ 
militude itself, and not to this property of its being pleasant; and, 
therefore, the right colocation, beyond doubt, was, because here, not 
only the similitude is pleasant, but the pattern more perfect ; the 
contrast lying, not between pleasant and more perfect, but between 
similitude and pattern. Much of the clearness and neatness of style 
depends on such attentions as these. 

£ The prettiest landscape I ever saw, was one drawn on the walls of 
a dark room, which stood opposite on one side to a navigable river, 
and on the other, to a park. The experiment is very common in 
optics.’ 

In the description of the landscape which follows, Mr. Addison is 
abundantly happy: but in this introduction to it, he is obscure and in- 


&>ect* xxiil] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR. No. 414. 247 

distinct. One who had not seen the experiment of the camera ob~ 
scura, could comprehend nothing of what he meant. And even, af¬ 
ter we understand what he points at, we are at some loss, whether to 
understand his description as of one continued landscape, or of 
two different ones, produced by the projection of the two camera 
obscuras on opposite walls. The scene, which I am inclined to 
think Mr. Addison here refers to, is Greenwich Park; with thepros- 
pects of the Thames, as seen by a camera obscura, which is placed 
in a small room in the upper story of the observatory; where i re¬ 
member to have seen, many years ago, the whole scene here describ¬ 
ed, corresponding so much to Mr. Addison’s account of it in this 
passage, that, at the time, it recalled it to my memory. 

As the observatory stands in the middle of the park, it overlooks, 
from one side, both the river and the park; and the objects afterwards 
mentioned, the ships, the trees, and the deer, are presented in one 
view, without needing any assistance from opposite walls. Put into 
plainer language,the sentence might run thus: ‘The prettiest land¬ 
scape I ever saw, was one formed by a camera obscura, a common 
optical instrument, on the wall of a dark room, which overlooked a 
navigable river and a park.’ 

‘ Here you might discover the waves and fluctuations of the water 
in strong and proper colours, with the picture of a ship entering at 
one end, and sailing by degrees through the whole piece. On another, 
there appeared the green shadows of trees, waving to and fro with 
the wind, and herds of deer among them in miniature, leaping about 
upon the wall.’ 

Bating one or two small inaccuracies, this is beautiful and lively 
painting. The principal inaccuracy lies in the connexion of the two 
sentences, here and on another. I suppose the author meant, on one 
side , and on another side. As it stands, another is ungrammatical, hav¬ 
ing nothing to which it refers. But the fluctuations of the water, the 
ship entering and sailing on by degrees, the trees waving in the 
wind, and the herds of deer among them leaping about, is all very 
elegant, and gives a beautiful conception of the scene meant to be 
described. 

‘ I must confess, the novelty of such a sight may be one occasion 
of its pleasantness to the imagination ; but certainly the chief reason 
is, its near resemblance to nature ; as it does not only,like other pic¬ 
tures, give the colour and figure, but the motions of the things it re¬ 
presents.’ 

In this sentence there is nothing remarkable, either to be praised 
or blamed. In the conclusion, instead of the things it represents ,the 
regularity of correct style requires the things which it represents. In 
the beginning, as one occasion and the chief reason are opposed to 
one another, I should think it better to have repeated the same 
word: one reason of its pleasantness to the imagination , but cer¬ 
tainly the chief reason is , #c*. 

‘ We have before observed, that there is generally, in nature, 
something more grand and august than what we meet with in the cu¬ 
riosities of art. When, therefore, we see this imitated in any mea- 


£48 


CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [lect. xxili. 


sure, it gives us a nobler and more exalted kind of pleasure, than 
what we receive from the nicer and more accurate productions of 
art/ 

It would have been better to have avoided terminating these two 
sentences in a manner so similar to each other; curiosities of art 
—-productions of art. 

‘On this account, our English gardens are not so entertaining to 
the fancy as those in France and Italy, where we see a large extent 
of ground covered with an agreeable mixture of garden and forest, 
which represents every where an artificial rudeness, much more 
charming than that neatness and elegance which we meet with in 
those of our own country/ 

The expression, represent every where an artificial rudeness , is so 
inaccurate, that I am inclined to think, what stood in Mr. Addison’s 
manuscript musthave been present every where. For the mixture of 
garden and forest does not represent, but actually exhibits or presents, 
artificial rudeness. That mixture represents indeed natural rudeness , 
that is, is designed to imitate it; but it in reality is, and presents, 
artificial rudeness. 

6 It might indeed be of ill consequence to the public, as well as 
unprofitable to private persons, to alienate so much ground from 
pasturage and the plough, in many parts of a country that is so well 
peopled and cultivated to a far greater advantage. But why may 
not a whole estate be thrown into a kind of garden by frequent 
plantations, that may turn as much to the profit as the pleasure of 
the owner? A marsh overgrown with willows, or a mountain shaded 
with oaks, are not only more beautiful, but more beneficial, than 
when they lie bare and unadorned. Fields of corn make a pleasant 
prospect; and if the walks were a little taken care of that lie be¬ 
tween them, and the natural embroidery of the meadows were 
helped and ini proved by some small additions of art, and the seve¬ 
ral rows of hedges were set off by trees and flowers that the soil was 
capable of receiving, a man might make a pretty landscape of his 
own possessions/ 

The ideas here are just, and the style is easy and perspicuous, 
though in some places bordering on the careless. In that passage, 
for instance, if the walks were a little take n care of that lie between 
them, one member is clearly out of its place, and the turn of the phrase 
a little taken care of \ is vulgar and colloquial. Much better, if it 
had run thus: if a little care were bestowed on the walks that lie 
between them. 

6 Writers who have given us an account of China, tell us, the inha¬ 
bitants of that country laugh at the plantations of our Europeans, 
which are laid out by the rule and the line; because, they say, any 
one may place trees in equal rows and uniform figures. They 
choose rather to show a genius in works of this nature, and, there¬ 
fore, always conceal the art by which they direct themselves. They 
have a word, it seems, in their language, by which they express the 
particular beauty of a plantation, that thus strikes the imagination at 
first sight, without discovering what it is, has so agreeable an effect. 5 


fcECT. xxiii.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 414. 249 

These sentences furnish occasion for no remark, except that in 
the last of them, particular is improperly used instead of peculiar; 
the peculiar beauty of a plantation that thus strikes the imagina¬ 
tion, was the phrase to have conveyed the idea which the author 
meant; namely, the beauty which distinguishes it from plantations of 
another kind. 

4 Our British gardeners, on the contrary, instead of humouring 
nature, love to deviate from it as much as possible. Our trees rise 
in cones, globes, and pyramids. We see the marks of the scissors 
on every plant and bush.’ 

These sentences are lively and elegant. They make an agreea¬ 
ble diversity from the strain of those which went before; and are 
marked with the hand of Mr. Addison. I have to remark only, 
that in the phrase, instead of humouring nature, love to deviate from 
it—humouring and deviating, are terms not properly opposed to 
each other; a sort of personification of nature is begun in the first 
of them, which is not supported in the second. To humouring, was 
to have been opposed thwarting; or if deviating was kept ,following, 
or going along with nature, was to have been used. 

‘ I do not know whether I am singular in my opinion, but for my 
own part, I would rather look upon a tree, in all its luxuriancy and 
diffusion of boughs and branches, than when it is thus cut and trim¬ 
med into a mathematical figure; and cannot but fancy that an or¬ 
chard, in flower, looks infinitely more delightful, than all the little 
labyrinths of the most finished parterre.’ 

This sentence is extremely harmonious, and every way beautiful. 
It carries all the characteristics of our author’s natural, graceful, and 
flowing language. A tree, in all its luxuriancy and diffusion of 
boughs and branches, is a remarkably happy expression. The au¬ 
thor seems to become luxuriant in describing an object which is so, 
and thereby renders the sound a perfect echo to the sense. 

‘ But as our great modellers of gardens have their magazines of 
plants to dispose of, it is very natural in them to tear up all the 
beautiful plantations of fruit trees, and contrive a plan that may 
most turn to their profit, in taking off their evergreens, and the like 
moveable plants, with which their shops are plentifully stocked.’ 

An author should always study to conclude, when it is in his pow¬ 
er, with grace and dignity. It is somewhat unfortunate, that this 
paper did not end, as it might very well have done, with the former 
beautiful period. The impression left on the mind by the beauties 
of nature, with which he had been entertaining us, would then have 
been more agreeable. But in this sentence there is a great falling 
off: and we return with pain from those pleasing objects, to the 
insignificant contents of a nursery-man’s shop. 


( 250 ) 

LECTURE XXIV 


CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN A 
PASSAGE OF DEAN SWIFT’S WRITINGS. 

My design in the four preceding lectures, was not merely to ap¬ 
preciate the merit of Mr. Addison’s style, by pointing out the faults 
and the beauties that are mingled in the writings of that great author. 
They were not composed with any view to gain the reputation of a 
critic: but intended for the assistance of such as are desirous of 
studying the most proper and elegant construction of sentences in 
the English language. To such, it is hoped, that they may be of 
advantage; as the proper application of rules respecting style, will 
always be best learned by means of the illustration which exam¬ 
ples afford. I conceive that examples, taken from the writings of 
an author so justly esteemed, would on that account, not only be 
more attended to, but would also produce this good effect, of fami¬ 
liarizing those who study composition with the style of a writer, from 
whom they may, upon the whole, derive great benefit. With the 
same view, I shall, in this lecture, give one critical exercise more of 
the same kind, upon the style of an author, of a different character, 
Dean Swift; repeating the intimation I gave formerly, that'such as 
stand in need of no assistance of this kind, and who, therefore, will 
naturally consider such minute discussions concerning the propriety 
of words, and structure of sentences, as beneath their attention, had 
best pass over what will seem to them a tedious part of the work. 

I formerly gave the general character of Dean Swift’s style. He is 
esteemed one of our most correct writers. His style is of the plain 
and simple kind; free from all affectation, and all superfluity; per¬ 
spicuous, manly, and pure. These are its advantages. But we are 
not to look for much ornament and grace in it.* On the contrary, 
Dean Swift seems to have slighted and despised the ornaments of 
language, rather than to have studied them. His arrangement is 
often loose and negligent. In elegant, musical, and figurative lan¬ 
guage, he is much inferior to Mr. Addison. His manner of writing 
carries in it the character of one who rests altogether upon his sense, 
and aims at no more than giving his meaning in a clear and concise 
manner. 

That part of his writings which I shall now examine, is the begin¬ 
ning of his treatise, entitled, * i A Proposal for correcting, improving , 
and ascertaining the English Tongue,’ in a letter addressed to the Ea rl 


* I am glad to find that, in my judgment concerning this author’s composition, 

I have coincided with the opinion of a very able critic. ‘ This easy and safe con¬ 
veyance of meaning, it was Swift’s desire to attain, and for having attained, he 
certainly deserves praise, though perhaps, not the highest praise. For purposes 
merely didactic, when something is to be told that was not known before, it is in 
the highest degree proper ; but against that inattention by which known truths 
are suffered to be neglected, it makes no provision; it instructs, but does not persuade 
Johnson’s Lives of the Poets ; in Swift. 


I 



&ECT. XXIV.] 


DEAN SWIFT’S STYLE. 


251 


of Oxford, then Lord High Treasurer. I was led, by the nature of 
the subject, to choose this treatise; but, injustice to the Dean, I 
must observe, that, after having examined it, I do not esteem it one 
of his most correct productions; but am apt to think it has been 
more hastily composed than some other of them. It bears the title 
and form of a letter; but it is, however, in truth, a treatise designed 
for the public ; and therefore, in examining it, we cannot proceed 
upon the indulgence due to an epistolary correspondence. When 
a man addresses himself to a friend only, it is sufficient if he makes 
himself fully understood by him ; but when an author writes for the 
public, whether he employ the form of an epistle or not, we are al¬ 
ways entitled to expect, that he shall express himself with accuracy 
and care. Our author begins thus : 

What I had the honour of mentioning to your Lordship, some 
time ago, in conversation, was not a new thought, just then started by 
accident or occasion, but the result of long reflection: and I have 
been confirmed in my sentiments by the opinion of some very judi¬ 
cious persons with whom I consulted.’ 

The disposition of circumstances in a sentence, such as serve to 
limit or to qualify some assertion, or to denote time and place, I for¬ 
merly showed to be a matter of nicety ; and I observed, that it ought 
to be always held a rule, not to crowd such circumstances together, 
butrather to intermix them with more capital words, in such different 
parts of the sentence as can admit them naturally. Here are two cir¬ 
cumstances ofthis kind placed together, which had better have been 
separated; Sometime ago in conversation —better thus: What I had 
the honour , sometime ago , of mentioning to your lordship in conver¬ 
sation—was not a new thought , proceeds our author, started by acci¬ 
dent or occasion: the different meaning of these two words may not at 
first occur. They have, however, a distinct meaning, and are pro¬ 
perly used : for it is one very laudable property of our author’s style, 
that it is seldom encumbered with superfluous, synonymous words. 
Started by accident , is, fortuitously, or at random ; started by occa¬ 
sion , is by some incident, which at that time gave birth to it. His 
meaning is, that it was not a new thought which either casually 
sprung up in his mind, or was suggested to him for the first time, by 
the train of the discourse: but, as he adds, was the result of long 
reflection. He proceeds: 

( They all agreed, that nothing would be of greater use towards the 
improvement of knowledge and politeness, than some effectual me¬ 
thod for correcting, enlarging, and ascertaining our language; and 
they think it a work very possible to be compassed under the protec¬ 
tion of a prince, the countenance and encouragement of a minis¬ 
try, and the care of proper persons chosen for such an undertak¬ 
ing.’ 

This is an excellent sentence; clear, and elegant. The words are 
all simple, well chosen, and expressive; and are arranged in the most 
proper order It is a harmonious period too, which is a beauty not 
frequent in our author. The last part of it consists of three mem¬ 
bers, which gradually rise and swell one above another, without any 


25* CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [lect. xxiy, 

affected or unsuitable pomp ; under the protection of a prince,, the 
countenance and encouragement of a ministry , and the care of pro¬ 
per persons chosen for such an under taking. We may remark, in the 
beginningofthesentence, theproperuse ot the preposition towards ~ 
greater use towards the improvement of knowledge and politeness— 
importing the pointing or tendency of any thing to a certain end : 
which could not have been so well expressed by the preposition 
Jor, commonly employed in place of towards, by authors who are 
less attentive, than Dean Swift was, to the force of words. 

One fault might, perhaps, be found, both with this and the former 
sentence, considered as introductory ones. We expect, that an in- 
troduction is to unfold, clearly and directly, the subject that is to be 
treated of. In the first sentence, our author has told us, of a thought 
he mentioned to his Lordship in conversation, which had been the 
result of long reflection, and concerning which he had consulted ju¬ 
dicious persons. But what that thought was, we are never told di¬ 
rectly. We gather it indeed from the second sentence, wherein he 
intorms us, m what these judicious persons agreed; namely, that 
some method for improving the language was both useful and practi¬ 
cable. But this indirect method of opening the subject, would have 
been very faulty in a regular treatise; though the ease of the epis¬ 
tolary form, which our author here assumes in addressing his patron, 
may excuse it in the present case. 

‘ I was glad to find your Lordship’s answer in so different a style 
from what hath commonly been made use of, on the like occasions, for 
some years past; that all such thoughts must be deferred to a time of 
peace; a topic which some have carried so far, that they would not 
have us, by any means, think of preserving our civil and religious 
constitution, because we are engaged in a war abroad.’ 

This sentence also is clear and elegant; only there is one inaccu- 
racy, when he speaks of his Lordship’s answer being in so different 
a style from what had formerly been used. His answer to what? or to 
whom For from any thing going before, it does not appear that any 
application or address had been made to his Lordship by those per¬ 
sons, whose opinion was mentioned in the preceding sentence; and to 
whom the answer, here spoken of, naturally refers. There is a little 
indistinctness, as I before observed, in our author’s manner of in¬ 
troducing his subject here. We may observe too that the phrase, 
gtad to find your answer in so different a style, though abundantly 
suited to the language of conversation, or of a familiar letter, yet, in re¬ 
gular composition, requires an additional word— glad to find your 
answer run in so different a style. J & 

‘ It will be among the distinguishing marks of your ministry, my 
Lord, that you have a genius above all such regards, and that no 
reasonable proposals, for the honour, the advantage, or ornament of 
your country, however foreign to your immediate office, was ever 
neglected by vou.’ 

P h f ase > « genius above all such regards, both seems some- 
:zir:b arid does not clearly express what the author means, 
e y, he confined views of those who neglected every thing that 


3.ECT. XXIV.] DEAN SWIFT’S STYLE. 253 

belonged to the arts of peace in the time of war. Except this ex¬ 
pression, there is nothing that can be subject to the least reprehen¬ 
sion in this sentence, nor in all that follows, to the end of the para¬ 
graph. 

i I confess, the merit of this candour and condescension is very 
much lessened, because your Lordship hardly leaves us room to offer 
our good wishes; removing all our difficulties, and supplying our 
wants, faster than the most visionary projector canadjusthis schemes. 
And therefore,my Lord, the design of this paper is not so much to 
(offer you ways and means, as to complain of a grievance, the redres¬ 
sing of which is to be your own work, as much as that of paying the 
nation’s debts, or opening a trade into the South sea; and, though 
not of such immediate benefit as either of these, or any other of your 
glorious actions, yet, perhaps, in future ages, not less to your hon¬ 
our.’ 

The compliments which the Dean here pays to his patron, are ve¬ 
ry high and strained; and show that, with all his surliness, he was 
as capable, on some occasions, of making his court to a great man by 
flattery, as other writers. However, with respect to the style, which 
is the sole object of our present consideration, every thing here, as 
far as appears to me, is faultless. In these sentences, and, indeed, 
throughout this paragraph, in general, which we have now ended, our 
author’s style appears to great advantage. We see that ease and 
simplicity, that correctness and distinctness, which particularly cha¬ 
racterize it. It is very remarkable, how few Latinised words Dean 
Swift employs. No writer, in our language, is so purely English as 
he is, or borrows so little assistance from words of foreign derivation. 
From none can we take a better model pf the choice and proper sig- 
nificancy of words. It is remarkable, in the sentences we have now 
before us, how plain all the expressions are, and yet, at the same 
time, how significant; and, in the midst of that high strain of com¬ 
pliment into which he rises, how little there is of pomp, or glare of 
expression. How very few writers can preserve this manly temper¬ 
ance of style; or would think a compliment of this nature supported 
with sufficient dignity, unless they had embellished it with some of 
those high-sounding words, whose chief effect is no other than to give 
their language a stiff and forced appearance? 

‘ My Lord, I do here, in the name of all the learned and polite per¬ 
sons of the nation, complain to your Lordship, as first minister, that 
our language is extremely imperfect; that its daily improvements are 
by no means in proportion to its daily corruptions; that the preten¬ 
ders to polish and refine it, have chiefly multiplied abuses and absur¬ 
dities ; and that, in many instances, it offends against every part of 
grammar.’ 

The turn of this sentence is extremely elegant. He had spoken 
before of a grievance for which he sought redress, and he carries on 
the allusion, by entering here directly on his subject, in the style of 
a public representation presented to the minister of state. One im¬ 
perfection, however, there is in this sentence, which luckily for out* 
purpose, serves to illustrate a rule before given, concerning the posi- 
2 0 


£54 


CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [lect. xxiv* 


tion of adverbs, so as to avoid ambiguity. It is in the middle of the 
sentence; that the pretenders to polish and refine it, have chiefly mul¬ 
tiplied abuses and absurdities. Now, concerning the importof this ad¬ 
verb, chiefly, I ask, whether it signifies that these pretenders to polish 
the language, have been the chief persons who have multiplied 
its abuses, in distinction from others , or, that the chief thing which 
these pretenders have done, is to multiply the abuses of our language 
in opposition to their doing any thing to refine it ? These two mean¬ 
ings are really different; and yet, by the position which the word 
chiefly has in the sentence, we are left at a loss in which to understand 
it. The construction would lead us rather to the latter sense; that 
the chief thing which these pretenders have done, is to multiply the 
abuses of our language., But it is more than probable, that the for¬ 
mer sense was what the Dean intended, as it carries more of his usual 
satirical edge; 4 that the pretended refiners of our language were, 
in fact, its chief corrupters ;’ on which supposition, his words ought 
to have run thus: that the pretenders to polish and refine it, have 
been the chief persons to multiply its abuses and absurdities; which 
would have rendered the sense perfectly clear. 

Perhaps, too, there might be ground for observing farther upon 
this sentence, that as language is the object with which it sets out; 
that our language is extremely imperfect; and as there follows an enu¬ 
meration concerning language, in three particulars, it had been bet¬ 
ter if language had been kept the ruling word, or the nominative to 
every verb, without changing the construction; by maXungpretenders 
the ruling word, as is done in the second member of the enumeration, 
and then, in the third, returning again to the former word, language . 
That the pretenders to polish—and that, in many instances , it of¬ 
fends —I am persuaded, that the structure of the sentence would have 
been more neat and happy, and its unity more complete, if the mem¬ 
bers of it had been arranged thus: 4 That our language is extremely 
imperfect; that its daily improvements are by no means in proportion 
to its daily corruptions; that, in many instances, it offends against 
e very part of grammar: and that the pretenders to polish and refine 
it, have been the chief persons to multiply its abuses and absurdities.’ 
This degree of attention seemed proper to be bestowed on such a 
sentence as this, in order to show how it might have been conducted 
after the most perfect manner. Our author, after having said, 

4 Lest your Lordship should think my censure too severe, I shall 
take leave to be more particular;’ proceeds in the following para¬ 
graph : 

4 1 believe your Lordship will agree with me, in the reason why 
our language is less refined than those of Italy, Spain, or France.’ 

I am sorry to say, that now we shall have less to commend in 
our author. For the whole of this paragraph, on which we are 
entering, is in truth, perplexed and inaccurate. Even in this short 
sentence, we may discern an inaccuracy— why our language is less 
refined than those of Italy, Spain, or France; putting the pronoun 
those in the plural, when the antecedent substantive to which it re¬ 
fers is in the singular, our language . Instances of this kind may 


xect.xxiv.] DEAN SWIFT’S STYLE. 


255 


sometimes be found in English authors; but they sound harsh to the 
ear, and are certainly contrary to the purity of grammar. By a 
very little attention, this inaccuracy might have been remedied; 
and the sentence have been made to run much better in this way; 
‘ why our language is less refined than the Italian, Spanish, or French.’ 

‘ It is plain, that the Latin tongue, in its purity, was never in this 
island ; towards the conquest of which, few or no attempts were 
made till the time of Claudius; neither was that language ever so 
vulgar in Britain, as it is known to have been in Gaul and Spain.’ 

T o say that the Latin tongue , in its purity , was never in this island, 
is very careless style; it ought to have been, was never spoken in this 
island. In the progress of the sentence, he means to give a reason 
why the Latin was never spoken in its purity amongst us, because 
our island was not conquered by the Romans till after the purity 
of their tongue began to decline. But this reason ought to have 
been brought out more clearly. This might easily have been done, 
and the relation of the several parts of the sentence to each other 
much better pointed out by means of a small variation; thus: 4 It 
is plain that the Latin tongue in its purity was never spoken in this 
island, as few or no attempts towards the conquest of it were made 
till the time of Claudius. 5 He adds, neither was that language ever 
so vulgar in Britain. Vulgar was one of the worst words he could 
have chosen for expressing what he means here : namely, that the 
Latin tongue was at no time so general, or so much in common use, 
in Britain, as it is known to have been in Gaul and Spain. Vulgar, 
when applied to language, commonly signifies impure, or debased 
language, such as is spoken by the low people, which is quite oppo¬ 
site to the author’s sense here; for, instead of meaning to say, that 
the Latin spoken in Britain was not so debased, as what was spoken 
in Gaul and Spain; he means just the contrary, and had been tell¬ 
ing us, that we never were acquainted with the Latin at all, till its 
purity began to be corrupted. 

4 Further, we find that the Roman legions here, were at length 
all recalled to help their country against the Goths and other barba¬ 
rous invaders.’ 

The chief scope of this sentence is, to give a reason why the La¬ 
tin tongue did not strike any deep root in this island, on account of 
the short continuance of the Romans in it. He goes on : 

4 Meantime the Britons, left to shift for themselves, and daily ha¬ 
rassed by cruel inroads from the Piets, were forced to call in the 
Saxons for their defence; who, consequently, reduced the greatest 
part of the island to their own power, drove the Britons into the 
most remote and mountainous parts, and the rest of the country, in 
customs, religion, and language, became wholly Saxon.’ 

This is a very exceptionable sentence. First, the phrase left to 
shift for themselves, is rather a low phrase, and too much in the fami¬ 
liar style to be proper in a grave treatise. Next as the sentence ad¬ 
vances— forced to call in the Saxons for their defence,who conse¬ 
quently reduced the greatest part of the island to their own power - 
What is the meaning of consequently here? If it means 4 afterwards/ 


256 


CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [lect. xxiv. 


or, ‘in progress of time/this, certainly, is not a sense in which con¬ 
sequently is often taken ; and therefore the expression is chargeable 
with obscurity. The adver b, consequently , in its most com mon ac¬ 
ceptation, denotes one thing following fro m another, as an effect 
from a cause. If he uses it in this sense, and means that the Britons 
being subdued by the Saxons, was a necessary consequence of their 
having called in these Saxons to their assistance, this consequence 
is drawn too abruptly, and nee led more explanation. For though 
it has often happened, that nations have been subdued by their own 
auxiliaries, yet this is not a consequence of such a nature that it can 
be assumed, as it seems here to be done, for a first and self-evident 
principle. But further, what shall we say to this phrase, reduced the 
greatest part of the islani to their own power? we say, reduce to 
rule , reduce to practice ; we can say, that one nation reduces an¬ 
other to subjection, But when dominion or power is used, we always, 
as far as I know, say, reduce under their power. Reduce to their power, 
is so harsh and uncommon an expression, that, though Dean Swift’s 
authority in language be very great, yet in the use of this phrase, 
I am of opinion that it would not be safe to follow his example. 

Besides these particular inaccuracies, this sentence is chargeable 
with want of unity in the composition of the whole. The persons 
and the scene are too often changed upon us. First, the Britons 
are mentioned, who are harassed by inroads from the Piets; next, 
the Saxons appear, who subdue the greatest part of the island, and 
drive the Britons into the mountains; and, lastly, the rest of the 
country is introduced, and a description given of the change made 
upon it. All this forms a group of various objects, presented in such 
quick succession, that the mind finds it difficult to comprehend them 
under one view. Accordingly, it is quoted in the Elements of Cri¬ 
ticism, as an instance of a sentence rendered faulty by the breach of 
unity. 

‘This I take to be the reason why there are more Latin words 
remaining in the British than the old Saxon; which, excepting 
some few variations in the orthography, is the same in most original 
words with our present English, as well as with the German and 
other northern dialects.’ 

This sentence is faulty, somewhat in the same manner with the 
last. It is loose in the connexion of its parts; and besides this, it 
is also too loosely connected with the preceding sentence. What 
he had there said, concerning the Saxons expelling the Britons, 
and changing the customs, the religion, and the language of the 
country, is a clear and good reason for our present language being 
Saxon rather than British. This is the inference which we would 
naturally expect him to draw from the premises just before laid 
down: but when he tells us, that this is the reason why there are more 
Latin words remaining in the British tongue than in the old Saxon, 
we are presently at a stand. No reason for this inference appears. 
If it can be gathered at all from the foregoing deduction, it is ga¬ 
thered only imperfectly. For, as he had told us, that the Britons 
bad some connexion with the Romans, he should have also told us. 


LECT. XXIV.] 


DEAN SWIFT’S STYLE. 


257 


in order to make out his inference, that the Saxons never had any. 
T. he truth is, the whole of this paragraph concerning the influence 
of the Latin tongue upon ours, is careless, perplexed, and obscure. 
His argument required to have been more fully unfolded, in order 
to make it be distinctly apprehended, and to give it its due force. In 
the next paragraph, he proceeds to discourse concerning the influ¬ 
ence of the French tongue upon our language. The style becomes 
more clear, though not remarkable for great beauty or elegance. 

‘ Edward the Confessor having lived long in France, appears to 
be the first who introduced any mixture of the French tongue with 
the Saxon; the court affecting what the Prince was fond of, and 
others taking it up for a fashion, as it is now with us. William the 
Conqueror proceeded much further, bringing over with him vast 
numbers of that nation, scattering them in every monastery, giving' 
them great quantities of land, directing all pleadings to be in that lan¬ 
guage, and endeavouring to make it universal in the kingdom.’ 

On these two sentences, I have nothing of moment to observe. 
The sense is brought out clearly, and in simple, unaffected language. 

‘ This, at least, is the opinion generally received; but your Lord- 
ship hath fully convinced me, that the French tongue made yet a 
greater progress here under Harry the Second, who had large terri¬ 
tories on that continent both from his father and his wife; made 
frequent journeys and expeditions thither; and was always attended 
with a number of his countrymen, retainers at court.’ 

In the beginning of this sentence, our author states an opposition 
between an opinion generally received, and that of his Lordship; 
and in compliment to his patron, he tells us, that his Lordship had 
convinced him of somewhat that differed from the general opinion. 
Thus one must naturally understand his words : This , at least , is the 
opinion generally received; but your Lordship hath fully convinced 
me. —Now here there must be an inaccuracy of expression. For on 
examining what went before, there appears no sort of opposition 
betwixt the generally received opinion, and that of the author’s pa¬ 
tron. The general opinion was, that William the Conqueror had 
proceeded much farther than Edward the Confessor, in propagating 
the French language, and had endeavoured to make it universal. 
Lord Oxford’s opinion was, that the French tongue had gone on to 
make a yet greater progress under Harry the Second, than it had 
done under his predecessor William: which two opinions are as 
entirely consistent with each other, as any can be; and therefore 
the opposition here affected to be stated between them, by the ad¬ 
versative particle but, was improper and groundless. 

( For some centuries after, there was a constant intercourse be¬ 
tween France and England by the dominion^ we possessed there, and 
the conquests we made ; so that our language, between two and three 
hundred years ago, seems to have had a greater mixture with French 
than at present; many words having been afterwards rejected, and 
some since the days of Spenser; although we have still retained 
not a few, which have been long antiquated in France.’ 

33 


258 


CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [lect. xxir. 

This is a sentence too long and intricate, and liable to the same 
objection that was made to a former one, of the want of unity. 
It consists of four members, each divided from the subsequent by a 
semicolon. In going along, we naturally expect the sentence is to 
end at the second of these, or at farthest, at the third : when,to our 
surprise, a new member of the period makes its appearance, and fa¬ 
tigues our attention in joining all the parts together. Such a structure 
of a sentence is always the mark of careless writing. In the first 
member of the sentence, a constant intercourse between France and 
England, by the dominions we possessed there, and the conq uests we 
made, the construction is not sufficiently filled up. In place otinter¬ 
course by the dominions wepossessed, it should have been— by reason 
of the dominions we possessed —or— occasioned by the dominions we 
possessed— and in place o {—the dominions wepossessed there, and the 
conquests we made, the regular style is -the dominions which wepos¬ 
sessed there and the conquests which we made. The relative pronoun 
which, is, indeed, in phrases of this kind, sometimes omitted. But, 
when it is omitted the style becomes elliptic; and though in conver¬ 
sation, or in the very light and easy kinds of writing, such elliptic style 
may not be improper, yet in grave and regular writing, it is better to 
fill up the construction, and insert the relative pronoun. After hav¬ 
ing said, I could produce several instances of bothkinds . if it were of 
any use or entertainment, our author begins the next paragraph thus: 

‘To examine into the several circumstances by which the lan¬ 
guage of a country may be altered, would force me to enter into a 
wide field.’ 

There is nothing remarkable in this sentence, unless that here oc¬ 
curs the first instance of a metaphor since the beginning of this trea¬ 
tise; entering into a wide field, being put for beginning an extensive 
subject. Few writers deal less in figurative language than Swift. I 
before observed, that he appears to despise ornaments of this kind; 
and though this renders his style somewhat dry on serious subjects, 
yet his plainness and simplicity, I must not forbear to remind my 
readers, is far preferable to an ostentatious and affected parade of 
ornament. 

‘I shall only observe, that the Latin, the French, and the English, 
seem to have undergone the same fortune. The first from the days 
of Romulus to those of Julius Caesar, suffered perpetual changes; 
and by what we meet in those authors who occasionally speak on 
that subject, as well as from certain fragments of old laws, it is mani¬ 
fest that the Latin, three hundred years before Tully, was as un¬ 
intelligible in his time, as the French and English of the same pe¬ 
riod are now; and these two have changed as much since William 
the Conqueror (which is but little less than 700 years) as the Latin 
appears to have done in the like term.’ 

The Dean plainly appears to be writing negligently here. This 
sentence is one of that involved and intricate kind, of which some 
instances have occurred before; but none worse than this. It re¬ 
quires a very distinct head to comprehend the whole meaning of the 
period at first reading. In one part of it we find extreme careless- 


jlject. xxrv.] DEAN SWIFT'S STYLE. 


259 


ness of expression. He says, It is manifest that the Latin , 300 
years before Tally, was as unintelligible in his time, as the English 
and French of the same period are now . By the English and F rench 
of the same period must naturally be understood, the English and 
French that were spoken three hundred years before Tully. This is 
the only grammatical meaning his words will bear; and yet assured¬ 
ly what he means, and what it would have been easy for him to 
haveexpressed with more precision, is, the English and French that 
were spoken 300 years ago; or at a period equally distant from our 
age as the old Latin, which he had mentioned, was from the age 
of Tully. But when an author writes hastily, and does not review 
with proper care what he has written, many such inaccuracies will 
be apt to creep into his style. 

6 Whether our language or the French will decline as fast as the 
Roman did, is a question that would perhaps admit more debate 
than it is worth. There were many reasons for the corruptions of 
the last; as the change of their government to a tyranny, which ruined 
the study of eloquence, there being no further use or encouragement 
for popular orators: their giving not only the freedom of the city, 
but capacity for employments, to several towns in Gaul, Spain, and 
Germany, and other distant parts, as far as Asia, which brought a 
great number of foreign pretenders to Rome; the slavish disposi¬ 
tion of the senate and people, by which the wit and eloquence 
of the age where wholly turned into panegyric, the most barren of 
all subjects; the great corruption of manners, and introduction of 
foreign luxury, with foreign terms to express it, with several others 
that might be assigned; not to mention the invasions from the Goths 
and Vandals, which are too obvious to insist on.' 

In the enumeration here made of the causes contributing towards 
the corruption of the Roman language, there are many inaccura¬ 
cies— the change of their government to a tyranny: Of whose gov¬ 
ernment? He had indeed been speaking of the Roman language, and 
therefore we guess at his meaning; but his style is ungrammatical; 
for he had not mentioned the Romans themselves; and therefore, 
when he says their government , there is no antecedent in the sen¬ 
tence to which the pronoun their can refer with any propriety. 
* Giving the capacity for employments to several towns in Gaul, is a 
questionable expression. For though towns are sometimesput for the 
people who inhabit them, yet to give a town the capacity for employ - 
ments, sounds harsh and uncouth. The wit and eloquence of the age 
wholly turned into panegyric, is aphrase which does not well express 
the meaning. Neither wit nor eloquence can be turned into pane¬ 
gyric ; but they may be turned towards panegyric, or, employed in 
panegyric, which was the sense the author had in view. 

The conclusion of the enumeration is visibly incorrect— The great 
corruption of manners, and introduction of foreign luxury with 
foreign terms to express it,with several others that might be assigned 
_He means, with several other reasons. The word reasons, had in¬ 
deed been mentioned before ; but as it stands, at the distance of thir¬ 
teen lines backward, the repetition of it here became indispensable, 


260 


CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [lect. xxiv. 

in order to avoid ambiguity. Not to mention, he adds, the invasions 
from the Goths and Vandals, which are too obvious to insist on. 
One would imagine him to mean, that the invasions from the Oaths 
and Vandals, are historical facts too veil known and obvious to be 
insisted on. But he means quite a different thing, though he has 
not taken the proper method of expressing it, through his haste, 
probably,to finish the paragraph; namely, that these invasions from 
the Goths and Vandals, were causes of the corruption ofthe Roman 
language too obvious to be insisted on . 

I shall not pursue this criticism any farther. I have been obliged 
to point out many inaccuracies in the passage which we have consi¬ 
dered. But, in order that my observations may not be construed as 
meant to depreciate the style or the writings of Dean Swift below 
their just value, there are two remarks which I judge it necessary to 
make before concluding this lecture. One is, that it were unfair to 
estimate an author’s style on the whole, by some passage in his writ¬ 
ings, which chances to be composed in a careless manner. This is 
the case with respect to this treatise, which has much the appear¬ 
ance of a hasty production: though, as I before observed, it was bv 
no means on that account that I pitched upon it for the subject of this 
exercise. But after having examined it, I am sensible that in many 
other of his writings, the Dean is more accurate. 

My other observation, which is equally applicable to Dean Swift and 
Mr. Addison, is, that there may be writers much freer from such inac¬ 
curacies, as I have had occasion to point out in these two, whose style, 
however, upon the whole, may not have half their merit. Refine¬ 
ment in language has, of late years, begun to be much attended to. 
In several modern productions of very small value, 1 should find it 
difficult to point out n my errors in language. The words might, pro¬ 
bably, be all proper words, correctly and clearly arranged; and the 
turn of the sentence sonorous and musical; whilst vet the style, upon 
the whole, might deserve no praise. The fault often lies in what may 
be called the general cast, or complexion of the style; which a per¬ 
son of a good taste discerns to be vicious; to be feeble, for instance, 
and diffuse; flimsy or affected; petulant or ostentatious; though the 
iaults cannot be so easily pointed out and particularized, as when they 
lie in some erroneous or negligent construction of a sentence.’ 
Whereas such writers as Addison and Swift, carry always those Ge¬ 
neral characters of good style, which in the midst of their occasion¬ 
al negligences, every person of good taste mustdiscern and approve. 
We see their faults overbalanced by higher beauties. We see a wri¬ 
ter of sense and reflection expressing his sentiments without affecta¬ 
tion, attentive to thoughts as well as to words; and, in the main cur¬ 
rent of his language, elegant and beautiful; and, therefore, the only 
proper use to be made of the blemishes which occur in the writings 
of such authors, is to point out to those who apply themselves to the 
study of composition, some of the rules which they ought to observe 
for avoiding such errors; and to render them sensibleof the neces- 
sity of strict attention to language and to style. Let them imitate 
£he ease and simplicity of those great authors; let them study to be 


i*ect. xxv.] DEAN SWIFT’S STYLE. 


261 


always natural, and, as far as they can, always correct in their expres¬ 
sions: let them endeavour to be,at some times, lively and strik¬ 
ing; but carefully avoid being at any time ostentatious and af¬ 
fected. 


LECTURE XXV. 


ELOQUENCE, OR PUBLIC SPEAKING.HISTORY 

OF ELOQUENCE.GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. 

DEMOSTHENES. 

Having finished that part of the course which relates to language 
and style, w T e are now to ascend a step higher, and to examine the 
subjects upon which style is employed. I begin with what is proper¬ 
ly called eloquence, or public speaking. In treating of this, I am to 
consider the different kinds and subjects of public speaking; the 
manner suited to each; the proper distribution and management of 
all the parts of a discourse; and the proper pronunciation or delive¬ 
ry of it. But before I enter upon any of these heads, it may be pro¬ 
per to take a view of the nature of eloquence in general, and of the 
state in which it has subsisted in different ages and countries. This 
will lead into some detail; but I hope an useful one; as in every art 
it is of great consequence to have a just idea of the perfection of 
that art, of the end at which it aims, and, of the progress which it has 
made among mankind. 

Of eloquence, in particular, it is the more necessary to ascertain 
the proper notion, because there is not any thing concerning which 
false notions have been more prevalent. Hence, it has been so often, 
and is still at this day, in disrepute with many. When you speak to 
a plain man, of eloquence, or in praise of it, he is apt to hear you with 
very little attention. He conceives eloquence to signify a certain 
trick of speech; the art of varnishing weak arguments plausibly; or 
of speaking, so as to please and tickle the ear. ‘Give me good 
sense,’ says he, ‘and keep your eloquence for boys.’ He is in the 
right, if eloquence were what he conceives it to be. It would be 
then a very contemptible art indeed, below the study of any wise or 
good man. But nothing can be more remote from truth. To be 
truly eloquent, is to speak to the purpose. For the best definition 
which, I think, can be given of eloquence, is the art of speaking in 
such a manner as to attain the end for which we speak. Whenever 
a man speaks or writes, he is supposed, as a rational being, to have 
some end in view; either to inform, or to amuse, or to persuade, or, 
in some way or other, to act upon his fellow-creatures. He who 
speaks or writes, in such a manner as to adapt all his words most effec¬ 
tually to that end, is the most eloquent man. Whatever then the sub¬ 
ject be, there is room for eloquence; in history, or even in philoso- 
3P 







2 62 


ELOQUENCE, OR 


[lect. XXV, 


phy, as well as in orations. The definition which I have given of 
eloquence, comprehends all the different kinds of it; whether calcu¬ 
lated to instruct, to persuade, or to please. But, as the most impor¬ 
tant subject of discourse is action, or conduct, the power of eloquence 
chiefly appears when it is employed to influence conduct, and per¬ 
suade to action. As it is principally with reference to this end, that 
it becomes the object of art, eloquence may, under this view of it, 
be defined, the art of persuasion. 

This being once established, certain consequences immediately 
follow, which point out the fundamental maxims of the art. It fol¬ 
lows clearly, that in order to persuade, the most essential requisites 
are, solid argument, clear method, a character of probity appear¬ 
ing in the speaker, joined with such graces of style and utterance, 
as shall draw our attention to what he says. Good sense is the foun¬ 
dation of all. No man can be truly eloquent without it; for fools 
can persuade none but fools. In order to persuade a man of sense 
you must first convince him; which is only to be done, by satis¬ 
fying his understanding of the reasonableness of what you propose 
to him. 

This leads me to observe, that convincing and persuading, 
though they are sometimes confounded, import, notwithstanding, 
different things, which it is necessary for us, at present, to distin¬ 
guish from each other. Conviction affects the understanding only; 
persuasion, the will and the practice. It is the business of the 
philosopher to convince me of truth; it is the business of the orator 
to persuade me to act agreeably to it, by engaging my affections 
on its side. Conviction and persuasion do not always go together. 
They ought, indeed, to go together; and would do so, if our incli¬ 
nation regularly followed the dictates of our understanding. But as 
our nature is constituted, I may be convinced, that virtue, justice, or 
public spirit, are laudable, while at the same time, I am not persuad¬ 
ed to act according to them. The inclination may revolt, though 
the understanding be satisfied : the passions may prevail against the 
judgment. Conviction is, however, always one avenue to the in¬ 
clination or heart; and it is that which an orator must first bend his 
strength to gain; for no persuasion is likely to be stable, which is 
not founded on conviction. But, in order to persuade, the orator 
must go farther than merely producing conviction; he must consider 
man as a creature moved by many different springs, and must act 
upon them all. He must address himself to the passions; he must 
paint to the fancy, and touch the heart; and, hence, besides solid 
argument, and clear method, all the conciliating and interesting 
arts, both of composition and pronunciation, enter into the idea of 
eloquence. 

An objection may, perhaps, hence be formed against eloquence, 
as an art which may be employed for persuading to ill, as well as 
to good. There is no doubt that it may; and so reasoning may also 
be, and too often is employed for leading men into error. But who 
vvould think of forming an argument from this against the cultiva¬ 
tion of our reasoning powers ? reason, eloquence, and every art 


i*ect. xxv.j 


PUBLIC SPEAKING. 


263 


which ever has been studied among mankind, may be abused, and 
may prove dangerous in the hands of bad men ; but it were perfect¬ 
ly childish to contend, that, upon this account, they ought to be 
abolished. Give truth and virtue the same arms which you give 
vice and falsehood, and the former are likely to prevail. Eloquence 
is no invention of the schools. Nature teaches every man to be 
eloquent, when he is much in earnest. Place him in some critical 
situation; let him have some great interest at stake, and you will 
see him lay hold of the most effectual means of persuasion. The 
art of oratory proposes nothing more than to follow out the track 
which nature has first pointed out. And the more exactly that 
this track is pursued, the more that eloquence is properly studied, 
the more shall we be guarded against the abuse which bad men 
make of it, and enabled the better to distinguish between true elo¬ 
quence and the tricks of sophistry. 

We may distinguish three kinds, or degrees of eloquence. The 
first, and lowest, is that which aims only at pleasing the hearers. 
Such, generally, is the eloquence of panegyrics, inaugural orations, 
addresses to great men, and other harangues of this sort. This or¬ 
namental sort of composition is not altogether to be rejected. It 
may innocently amuse and entertain the mind: and it may be mix¬ 
ed, at the same time, with very useful sentiments. But it must be 
confessed, that where the speaker has no farther aim than merely 
to shine and to please, there is great danger of art being strained 
into ostentation, and of the composition being tiresome and lan- 
guid. 

A second and a higher degree of eloquence, is, when the speaker 
aims not merely to please, but also to inform, to instruct, to con¬ 
vince : when his art is exerted, in removing prejudices against him¬ 
self and his cause; in choosing the most proper arguments, stating 
them with the greatest force, arranging them in the best order, ex¬ 
pressing and delivering them with propriety and beauty; and there¬ 
by disposing us to pass that judgment, or embrace that side of the 
cause, to which he seeks to bring us. Within this compass, chiefly, 
is employed the eloquence of the tar. 

But there is a third, and still higher degree of eloquence, 
wherein a greater power is exerted over the human mind; by which 
we are not only convinced, but are interested, agitated, and carried 
along with the speaker ; our passions are made to rise together with 
his; we enter into all his emotions; we love, we detest, we resent, 
according as he inspires us, and are prompted to resolve, or to act, 
with vigour and warmth. Debate, in popular assemblies, opens the 
most illustrious field to this species of eloquence; and the pulpit 
also admits it. 

I am here to observe, and the observation is of consequence, that 
the high eloquence which I have last mentioned, is always the off¬ 
spring of passion. By passion, I mean that state of the mind in 
which it is agitated, and fired by some object it has in view. A man 
may convince, and even persuade others to act, by mere reason and 
argument. But that degree of eloquence which gains the admira- 


ELOQUENCE, OK 


[lect. XXV. 


264 

tion of mankind, and properly denominates one an orator, is never 
found without warmth or passion. Passion, when in such a degree 
as to rouse and kindle the mind, without throwing it out of the pos¬ 
session of itself, is universally found to exalt all the human powers. 
It renders the mind infinitely more enlightened, more penetrating, 
more vigorous and masterly, than it is in its calm moments. A man, 
actuated by a strong passion, becomes much greater than he is at 
other times. He is conscious of more strength and force; he ut¬ 
ters greater sentiments, conceives higher designs, and executes them 
with a boldness and a felicity, of which, on other occasions, he could 
not think himself capable. But chiefly, with respect to persuasion, 
is the power of passion felt. Almost every man, in passion, is elo¬ 
quent. Then he is at no loss for words and arguments. He trans¬ 
mits to others, by a sort of contagious sympathy, the warm senti¬ 
ments which he feels; his looks and gestures are all persuasive; 
and nature here shows herself infinitely more powerful than art 
This is the foundation of that just and noted rule: 4 Si vis me flere, 
dolendum est primum ipsi tibi.* 

This principle being once admitted, that all high eloquence flows 
from passion, several consequences follow, which deserve to be at¬ 
tended to; and the mention of which will serve to confirm the prin¬ 
ciple itself. For hence the universally acknowledged effect of en¬ 
thusiasm, or warmth of any kind, in public speakers, for affecting 
their audience. Hence all laboured declamation, and affected or¬ 
naments of style, which show the mind to be cool and unmoved, 
are so inconsistent with persuasive eloquence. Hence all studied 
prettinesses, in gesture or pronunciation, detract so greatly from the 
weight of a speaker. Hence a discourse that is read, moves us less 
than one that is spoken, as having less the appearance of coming- 
warm from the heart. Hence, to call a man cold, is the same thing 
as to say, that he is not eloquent. Hence, a skeptical man, who is 
always in suspense, and feels nothing strongly ; or a cunning merce¬ 
nary man, who is suspected rather to assume the appearance of pas¬ 
sion than to feel it; have so little power over men in public speak¬ 
ing. Hence, in fine, the necessity of being, and being believed to 
be, disinterested, and in earnest, in order to persuade. 

Those are some of the capital ideas which have occurred to me, 
concerning eloquence in general; and with which I have thought pro¬ 
per to begin, as the foundation of much of what I am afterwards to 
suggest. From what I have already said, it is evident that eloquence 
is a high talent and of great importance in society: and that it re¬ 
quires both natural genius, and much improvement from art. View¬ 
ed as the art of persuasion, it requires, in its lowest state, soundness 
of understanding, and considerable acquaintance with human na¬ 
ture ; and, in its higher degrees, it requires, moreover, strong sensi¬ 
bility of mind, a warm and lively imagination, joined with correctness 
of judgment, and an extensive command of the power of language; 
to which must also be added, the graces of pronunciation and deli¬ 
very. Let us next proceed, to consider in what state eloquence has 
Subsisted in different ages and nations. 


X.ECT. XXV.] 


PUBLIC SPEAKING. 


265 


It is an observation made by several writers, that eloquence is to 
be looked for only in free states. Longinus, in particular, at the end 
of his treatise on the sublime, when assigning the reason why so lit¬ 
tle sublimity of genius appeared in the age wherein he lived, illus¬ 
trates this observation with a great deal of beauty. Liberty, he re¬ 
marks, is the nurse of true genius; it animates the spirit, and invigo¬ 
rates the hopes of men ; excites honourable emulation, and a desire 
of excelling in every art. All other qualifications, he says, you may 
find among those who are deprived of liberty; but never did a slave 
become an orator; he can only be a pompous flatterer. Now, 
though this reasoning be, in the main, true; it must, however, be un¬ 
derstood with some limitations. For, under arbitrary governments, 
if they be of the civilized kind, and give encouragement to the arts, 
ornamented eloquence may flourish remarkably. Witness France 
at this day, where, ever since the reign of Louis XIV. more 
of what may be justly called eloquence, within a certain sphere, is 
to be found, than, perhaps, in any other nation in Europe; though 
freedom be enjoyed by some nations in a much greater degree. 
The French sermons, and orations pronounced on public occasions, 
are not only polite and elegant harangues, but several of them are un¬ 
commonly spirited, are animated with bold figures, and rise to a degree 
of the sublime. Their eloquence, howe ver, in general, must be con¬ 
fessed to be of the flowery rather than the vigorous kind; calculated 
more to please and sooth, than to convince and persuade. High, 
manly, and forcible eloquence,is, indeed, to be looked for only, or 
chiefly, in the regions of freedom. Under arbitrary governments, be¬ 
sides the general turn of softness and effeminacy which such govern¬ 
ments may be justly supposed to give to the spirit of a nation, the art 
of speaking cannot be such an instrument of ambition, business, and 
power, as it is in democratical states. It is confined within a nar¬ 
rower range ; it can be employed only in the pulpit, or at the bar; but 
is excluded from those great scenes of public business, where the spi¬ 
rits of men have the freest exertion; where important affairs are trans¬ 
acted, and persuasion, of course, is more seriously studied. Wher¬ 
ever man can acquire most power over man by means of reason and 
discourse, which certainly is under a free state of government, there 
we may naturally expect that true eloquence will be best understood, 
and carried to the greatest height. 

Hence, in tracing the rise of oratory, we need not attempt to go 
far back into the early ages of the world, or search for it among the 
monuments of eastern or Egyptian antiquity. In those ages, there 
was, indeed, an eloquence of a certain kind; but it approached near¬ 
er to poetry than to what we properly call oratory. There is reason 
to believe, as I formerly showed, that the language of the first ages 
was passionate and metaphorical; owing partly to the scanty stock 
of words, of which speech then consisted; and partly to the tincture 
which language naturally takes from the savage and uncultivated state 
of men, agitated by unrestrained passions, and struck by events which 
to them are strange and surprising. In this state, rapture and enthu- 

34 


266 


GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. 


[lect. XXV. 


siasm, the parents of poetry, had an ample field. But while the in¬ 
tercourse of men was as yet unfrequent, and force and strength were 
the chie means employed in deciding controversies, the arts of ora¬ 
tory and persuasion, of reasoning and debate, could be but little 
known The first empires that arose, the Assyrian and Egyptian, 
weie of the despotic kind. The whole power was in the hands of 
one, or at most of a few The multitude were accustomed to a blind 
reverence; they were led, not persuaded; and none of those re¬ 
finements of society, which make public speaking an object of im¬ 
portance, were as yet introduced. 

It is not till the rise of the Grecian republics, that we find any re¬ 
markable appearances of eloquence as the art of persuasion ; and 
these gave it such a field as it never had before, and, perhaps 
has never had again since that time. And, therefore, as the Gre- 
cian eloquence has ever been the object of admiration to those who 
have stuched the powers of speech, it is necessary that we fix our 
attention, for a little, on this period. 

Greece was divided into a multitude of petty states. These were 

IXonfrc at nl’ by I'" 58 r h ° Were CaIled l y rants - on whose ex- 
pulsion fi om all these states, there sprung up a great number of demo- 

cratical governments, founded nearly on the same plan, animated by 

other me w Sh SP,nt ° ffreedo " 1 ’ mutually jealous, and rivals of one am 
other. We may compute the flourishing period of those Grecian 
-tates to have lasted from the battle of Marathon, till the time of Alex¬ 
ander the Great, who subdued the liberties of Greece; a period which 

'” pr f’?‘ K S ab ° ut 15 ° y ears » and within which are to be found 
ost of their celebrated poets and philosophers, but chiefly their 

them r afte f0r tl! h t 0USh T* 7 a ? d P hiloso P h y were not extinct among 
them after that period, yet eloquence hardly made any figure. 

Of these Grecian republics, the most noted, by far, for eloquence 
and,indeed,forartsofevery kind, was thatof Athens. The Athenians 

an7:hT nSe :; 1 K US ’r qUick) Spn r htly pe °P le ’ P™‘i*ed in business 
and sharpened by frequent and sudden revolutions, which happen- 

7h" | e,r S0V '! rn ? e "t-. The genius of their government was alto- 

fhe h nen d 7° C mK Ca 1 ®S Islature consisted of the whole body of 

the people. They had, indeed, a senate of five hundred; but in 
the general convention of the citizens was placed the last resort • 
and affairs were conducted there, entirely, by reasoning, speaking 
and a skilful application to the passions and interests of apopular 
assembly. There, laws were made, peace and war decreed and 
thence the magistrates were chosen. For the highest honours of 

®, Th r re ahke ° pe " to a11 > nor was the meanest tradesman 
excluded from a seat in their supreme courts. In such a state 
eloquence, it is obvious, would be much studied, as the surest 
Not tL°/"k"? ,ndu .t. nce and P ower i a »d what sort of eloquence? 

fould H „7n IC t h T S i br K * ant m 7‘ y ’ Md sllo wy;but that which was 
touml, upon trial, to be most effectual for convincing, interesting 

and persuading the hearer. For there, public spefking was n§ 

mere competition for empty applause, but a serious contention 


5.ECT. xxv.] GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. 


267 


for that public leading which was the great object both of the men 
of ambition, and the men of virtue. 

In so enlightened and acute a nation, where the highest attention 
was paid to every thing elegant in the arts, we may naturally expect 
to find the public taste refined and judicious Accordingly, it was 
improved to such a degree, that the Attic taste and Attic manner 
have passed into a proverb. It is true, that ambitious demagogues, 
and corrupt orators, did sometimes dazzle and mislead the people, 
by a showy but false eloquence: for the Athenians, with all their 
acuteness, were factious and giddy, and great admirers of every no¬ 
velty. Rut when some important interest drew their attention, 
when any great danger roused them, and put their judgment to 
a serious trial, they commonly distinguished very justly between 
genuine and spurious eloquence; and hence Demosthenes triumphed 
over all his opponents; because he spoke always to the purpose, 
affected no insignificant parade of words, used weighty arguments, 
and showed them clearly where their interest lay. In critical con¬ 
junctures of the state, when the public was alarmed with some 
pressing danger, when the people were assembled, and procla¬ 
mation was made by the crier, for any one to rise and deliver his 
opinion upon the present situation of affairs, empty declamation 
and sophistical reasoning would not only have been hissed, but re¬ 
sented and punished by an assembly so intelligent and accustomed 
to business. Their greatest orators trembled on such occasions, 
when they rose to address the people, as they knew they were to be 
held answerable for the issue of the counsel which they gave. The 
most liberal endowments of the greatest princes never could found 
such a school for true oratory, as was formed by the nature of the 
Athenian republic. Eloquence there sprung, native and vigorous, 
from amidst the contentions of faction and freedom, of public busi¬ 
ness, and of active life; and not from that retirement and specula¬ 
tion, which we are apt sometimes to fancy more favourable to elo¬ 
quence than they are found to be. 

Pisistratus, who was contemporary with Solon, and subverted 
his plan of government, is mentioned by Plutarch, as the first who 
distinguished himself among the Athenians by application to the 
arts of speech. His ability in these arts he employed for 
raising himself to the sovereign power; which, however, when 
he had attained it, he exercised with moderation. Of the ora¬ 
tors who flourished between his time and the Peloponnesian war, 
no particular mention is made in history. Pericles, who died 
about the beginning of that war, was properly the first who carried 
eloquence to a great height; to such a height, indeed, that it does 
not appear he was ever afterwards surpassed. He was more than an 
orator; he was also a statesman and a general; expert in business, 
and of consummate address. Forty years he governed Athens 
with absolute sway; and historians ascribe his influence, not more 
to his political talents than to his eloquence, which was of that 
forcible and vehement kind, that bore every thing before it, and 
triumphed over the passions and affections of the people. Hence 


268 


GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. 


[lect. XXV. 


he had the surname of Olympias given him; and it was said, that, 
like Jupiter, he thundered when he spoke. Though his ambition be 
liable to censure, yet he was distinguished for several virtues, and it 
was the confidence which the people reposed in his integrity, that 
gave such power to his eloquence. He appears to have been gene¬ 
rous, magnanimous,and public spirited; he raised no fortune to him¬ 
self; he expended indeed great sums of the public money, but chiefly 
on public works; and at his death is said to have valued himself 
principally on having never obliged any citizen to wear mourning 
on his account, during his long administration. It is a remarkable 
particular recorded of Pericles by Suidas, that he was the first 
Athenian who composed, and put into writing, a discourse designed 
for the public. 

Posterior to Pericles, in the course of the Peloponnesian war, 
arose Cleon, Alcibiades, Critias, and Theramenes, eminent citi¬ 
zens of Athens, who were all distinguished for their eloquence. 
They were not orators by profession; they were not formed by 
schools, but by a much more powerful education, that of business 
and debate ; where man sharpened man, and civil affairs carried on 
by public speaking brought every power of the mind into action. The 
manner or style of oratory which then prevailed, we learn from the 
orations in the history of Thucydides, who also flourished in the 
same age. It was manly, vehement, and concise, even to some de¬ 
gree of obscurity. ‘Grandes erant verbis/ says Cicero, ( crebri 
sententiis, compressione rerum breves, et, ob earn ipsam causam, 
interdum subobscuri. A manner very different from what, in mo¬ 
dern times, we would conceive to be the style of popular oratory; 
and which tends to give a high idea of the acuteness of those audi¬ 
ences to which they spoke. 

The power of eloquence having, after the days of Pericles, 
become an object of greater consequence than ever, this gave 
birth to a set of men till then unknown, called rhetoricians, and 
sometimes sophists, who arose in multitudes during the Peloponne¬ 
sian war; such as Protagoras, Prodicas, Thrasymus, and one who 
was more eminent than all the rest, Gorgias oY Leontium. These 
sophists joined to their art of rhetoric a subtile logic, and were 
generally a sort of metaphysical skeptics. Gorgias, however, 
was a professed master of eloquence only. His reputation was 
prodigious. He was highly venerated in Leontium of Sicily, 
his native city; and money was coined with his name upon it. In 
the latter part of his life, he established himself at Athens, and 
lived till he had attained the age of 105 years. Hermogenes (de 
Ideis, 1. ii. cap. 9.) has preserved a fragment of his, from which 
we see his style and manner. It is extremely quaint and artificial: 
full of antithesis and pointed expression; and shows how far the Gre- 


* ‘ They were magnificent in their expressions ; they abounded in thought; they 
compressed their matter into few words, and by their brevity, were sometimes obscure 



laECT. XXV.] 


GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. 


26& 

cian subtility had already carried the study of language. These 
rhetoricians did not content themselves with delivering general in¬ 
structions concerning eloquence to their pupils, and endeavouring 
to form their taste ; but they professed the art of giving them receipts 
for making all sorts of orations; and of teaching them how to speak 
for, and against, every cause whatever. Upon this plan, they 
were the first who treated of common places, and the artificial in¬ 
vention of arguments and topics for every subject. In the hands of 
such men, we may easily believe that oratory would degenerate 
from the masculine strain it had hitherto held, and become a tri¬ 
fling and sophistical art; and we may justly deem them the first cor¬ 
rupters of true eloquence. To them, the great Socrates opposed 
himself. By a profound, but simple reasoning peculiar to himself, 
he exploded their sophistry ; and endeavoured to recall men’s atten¬ 
tion from that abuse of reasoning and discourse which began to be in 
vogue, to natural language, and sound and useful thought. 

In the same age, though somewhat later than the philosopher 
above mentioned, flourished Isocrates, whose writings are still ex¬ 
tant. He was a professed rhetorician, and by teaching eloquence, 
he acquired both a great fortune, and higher fame than any of his 
rivals in that profession. No contemptible orator was he. His 
orations are full of morality and good sentiments; they are flowing 
and smooth; but too destitute of vigour. He never engaged in 
public affairs, nor pleaded causes; and accordingly his orations are 
calculated only for the shade: ( Pompse,’ Cicero allows, ‘ magis 
quam pugnae aptior; ad voluptatem aurium accommodatus potius 
quam ad judiciorum certamen.’* The style of Gorgias of Leontium 
was formed into short sentences, composed generally of two mem¬ 
bers balanced against each other. The style of Isocrates, on the 
contrary, is swelling and full; and he is said to be the first who in¬ 
troduced the method of composing in regular periods, which had a 
studied music and harmonious cadence; a manner which he has 
carried to a vicious excess. What shall we think of an orator, who 
employed ten years in composing one discourse, still extant, entitled 
the Panegyric ? Hqw much frivolous care must have been bestow¬ 
ed on all the minute elegance of words and sentences? Dionysius 
of Halicarnassus has given us upon the orations of Isocrates, as also 
upon those of some other Greek orators, a full and regular treatise, 
which is, in my opinion, one of the most judicious pieces of ancient 
criticism extant, and very worthy of being consulted. He commends 
the splendour of Isocrates’s style, and the morality of his sentiments; 
but severely censures his affectation, and the uniform regular ca¬ 
dence of all his sentences. He holds him to be a florid declaimer; 
not a natural persuasive speaker. Cicero, in his critical works, 
though he admits his failings, yet discovers a propensity to be very 
favourable to that ‘ plena ac numerosa oratio,’ that swelling and 
musical style which Isocrates introduced, and with the love of which, 
Cicero himself was perhaps somewhat infected. In one of his trea- 

* ‘ More fitted for show than for debate ; better calculated for the amusement of an 
audience, than for judicial contests.’ 

2Q 




^TO 


GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. 


[lect. XKV- 


tises (Orat. ad. M. Brut.) he informs us, that his friend Brutus and 
he differed in this particular, and that Brutus found fault with his 
partiality to Isocrates. The manner of Isocrates generally catches 
young people, when they begin to attend to composition; and it 
is very natural that it should do so. It gives them an idea of that 
regularity, cadence,and magnificence of style, which fills the ear: 
but when they come to write or speak for the world, they will find 
this ostentatious manner unfit, either for carrying on business, or 
commanding attention. It is said, that the high reputation of Iso¬ 
crates, prompted Aristotle, who was nearly his contemporary, or liv¬ 
ed but a little after him, to write his institutions of rhetoric; which 
are indeed formed upon a plan of eloquence very different from 
that of Isocrates, and the rhetoricians of that time. He seems to 
have had it in view to direct the attention of orators much more 
towards convincing and affecting their hearers, than towards the 
musical cadence of periods. 

Isaeus and Lysias, some of whose orations are preserved, belong al¬ 
so to this period. Lysias was somewhat earlier than Isocrates, and 
is the model of that manner which the ancients call the ‘ Tenuis vel 
Subtilis.’ He has none of Isocrates’s pomp. He is every where 
pure and attic in the highest degree; simple and unaffected; but 
wants force, and is sometimes frigid in his compositions.* Isaeus 
is chiefly remarkable for being the master of the great Demosthenes, 

* In the judicious comparison, which Dionysius of Halicarnassus makes of the 
merits of Lysias and Isocrates, he ascribes to Lysias, as the distinguishing- charac¬ 
ter of his manner, a certain grace or elegance arising from simplicity: “FT tpoKt 
« Atxr/fc xi%ic to X*£«v n <5 IroK^iTtK fixxtTcit." “The style of Lysias has 
gracefulness for its nature: that of Isocrates seeks to have it.” In the art of nar¬ 
ration, as distinct, probable, and persuasive, he holds Lysias to be superior to 
all orators ; at the same time, he admits that his composition is more adapted to 
private litigation than to great subjects. He convinces, but he does not elevate 
nor animate. The magnificence and splendour of Isocrates is more suited to great 
occasions. He is mord agreeable than Lysias ; and in dignity of sentiment, far 
excels him. With regard to the affectation which is visible in Isocrates’s man¬ 
ner, he concludes what he says of it with the following excellent observations, 
which should never be forgotten by any who aspire to be true orators. “ 
fAivrot dyceyH c too y nreg/ocfay to kvkxiov k<u ray T%»u*Tt<rfAOcv t»c Xt^icce to /uii^AKlceftf^ 
UK )foKt/U*£oV' SuXtUtt M <f<*VB/* TtOXXUKlt TOO £1/0 fJLOO TWC Xt^SOX, KOU TJf X0«4# XilWiTOU 

TSt SfcAW0 IVOV. fc£*T<rOV T iWlT»ftVU.tt iV fllXiKTOO O-OXITIKH Kail iyatyMtO) TO 0/U010TVT0V TUI 
KstTJ. qutriv, finKiTno ft « cpvrte toio voiHUiaiv ststO*/ txv >t%iv a th xt^u roe vox/uotT*- 
au/uG>i\a> ft Jn nrt^t Groxe/uis k-u xtyovli kii tftaoTn tov <o-t^i r^t^'VTi Ktvfuvov tv 

flKAToUO, TCt KOjU^A , K-AtQi*T£lK* Kttl /Utl^ct KlU0» T'AVTl KK Olft V\TIV* (fyy A IT atr <Q"t £» ryjclV 
WQtKU&r /ueiXXOV f' c if* oti k' ll *V dlTtoi ytvilTO. to -(UOC <t2rat? tv rumf}^ 

kai k&x ooc yivo/utvo c at»£ov nr^rtyuA KAt TroKtuooTdi tov ixta.” Judic. de fsocrate. p. 558. 
‘His studied circumflection of periods, and juvenile affectation of the flowers of 
speech, I do not approve. The thought is frequently made subservient te the mu¬ 
sic of the sentence; and elegance is preferred to reason. Whereas, in even dis¬ 
course where business and affairs are concerned, nature ought to be followed*, and 
nature certainly dictates that the expression should be an object subordinate to 
the sense, not the sense to the expression. When one rises to give public counsel 
concerning war and peace, or takes the charge of a private man, who is standing 
at the bar to be tried for his life, those studied decorations, those theatrical graces 
and juvenile flowers,are out of place. Instead of being of service, they are detrimental 
to the cause we espouse. When the contest is of a serious kind, ornaments, which at an¬ 
other time would have beauty, then lose their effect, and prove hostile to the affections 
which we wish to raise in our hearers.’ 



Luc 5 r. srxv.] 


GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. 


271 


in whom, it must be acknowledged, eloquence shone forth with 
higher splendour, than perhaps in any that ever bore the name of an 
orator, and whose manner and character, therefore, must deserve 
our particular attention. 

I shall not spend any time upon the circumstances of Demos¬ 
thenes’s life; they are well known. The strong ambition which he 
discovered to excel in the art of speaking; the unsuccessfulness of 
his first attempts; his unwearied perseverance in surmounting all the 
disadvantages that arose from his person and address; his shutting 
himself up in a cave, that he might study with less distraction; his 
declaiming by the sea shore, that he might accustom himself to the 
noise of a tumultuous assembly, and with pebbles in his mouth, that 
he might correct a defect in his speech ; his practising at home 
with a naked sword hanging over his shoulder, that he might check 
an ungraceful motion, to which he was subject; all those circum¬ 
stances, which we learn from Plutarch, are very encouraging to 
such as study eloquence, as they show how far art and application 
may avail, for acquiring an excellence which nature seemed unwil¬ 
ling to grant us. 

Despising the affected and florid manner which the rhetoricians 
of that age followed, Demosthenes returned to the forcible and 
manly eloquence of Pericles; and strength and vehemence form the 
principal characteristics of his style. Never had an orator a finer 
field than Demosthenes in his Olynthiacs and Philippics, which are 
his capital orations; and, no doubt, to the nobleness of the subject, 
and to that integrity and public spirit which eminently breathe in 
them, they are indebted for much of their merit. The subject is to 
rouse the indignation of his countrymen against Philip of Macedon, 
the public enemy of the liberties of Greece; and to guard them 
against the insidious measures, by which that crafty prince endea¬ 
voured to lay them asleep to danger. In the prosecution of this 
end, We see him taking every proper method to animate a people, 
renowned for justice, humanity, and valour, but in many instances 
become corrupt and degenerate. He boldly taxes them with their 
venality, their indolence, and indifference to the public cause; while 
at the same time, with all the art of an orator, he recalls the glory 
of their ancestors to their thoughts, shows them that they are still a 
flourishing and a powerful people, the natural protectors of the liber¬ 
ty of Greece, and who wanted only the inclination to exert them¬ 
selves, in order to make Philip tremble. With his contemporary 
orators, who were in Philip’s interest, and who persuaded the peo¬ 
ple to peace, he keeps no measures, but plainly reproaches them as 
the betrayers of their country. He not only prompts to vigorous 
conduct, but he lays down the plan of that conduct; he enters into 
particulars; and points out, with great exactness, the measures of 
execution. This is the strain of these orations. They are strongly 
animated, and full of the impetuosity and fire of public spirit. They 
proceed in a continued train of inductions, consequences, and de¬ 
monstrations, founded on sound reason. The figures which he uses, 
are never sought after; but always rise from the subject. He em- 


DEMOSTHENES. 


[lect. XXV, 


2T2 

ploys them sparingly indeed ; for splendour and ornament are not 
the distinctions of this orator’s composition. It is an energy of 
thought peculiar to himself, which forms his character, and sets him 
above all others. He appears to attend much more to things than 
to words. We forget the orator, and think of the business. He 
warms the mind, and impels to action. He has no parade and os¬ 
tentation; no methods of insinuation; no laboured introductions; 
but is like a man full of his subject, who, after preparing his audi¬ 
ence by a sentence or two for hearing plain truths, enters directly on 
business. 

Demosthenes appears to great advantage, when contrasted' with 
JEschines in the celebrated oration 4 pro Corona.’ iEschines was 
his rival in business, and personal enemy; and one of the most dis¬ 
tinguished orators of that age. But when we read the two orations, 
iEschines is feeble in comparison of Demosthenes, and makes much 
less impression on the mind. His reasonings concerning the law 
that was in question, are indeed very subtile; but his invective against 
Demosthenes is general and ill supported. Whereas, Demosthenes 
is a torrent, that nothing can resist. He bears down his antagonist 
with violence; he draws his character in the strongest colours; and 
the particular merit of that oration is, that all the descriptions in it 
are highly picturesque. There runs through it a strain of magnani¬ 
mity and high honour; the orator speaks with that strength and con¬ 
scious dignity which great actions and public spirit alone inspire. 
Both orators use great liberties with one another; and, in general, 
that unrestrained license which ancient manners permitted, and which 
was carried by public speakers even to the length of abusive names and 
downright scurrility, as appears both here and in Cicero’s Philippics 
hurts and offends a modern ear. What those ancient orators gained by 
such a manner in point of freedom and boldness, is more than com¬ 
pensated by want of dignity; which seems to give an advantage, in 
this respect, to the greater decency of modern speaking. 

The style of Demosthenes is strong and concise, though some¬ 
times, it must not be dissembled, harsh and abrupt. His words are 
very expressive; his arrangement is firm and manly: and though far 
from being unmusical, yet it seems difficult to find in him that studi¬ 
ed, but concealed number, and rythmus, which some of the ancient 
critics are fond of attributing to him. Negligent of these lesser 
graces, one would rather conceive him to have aimed at that sublime 
which lies in sentiment. His action and pronunciation are recorded 
to have been uncommonly vehement and ardent; which, from the 
manner of his composition, we are naturally led to believe. The 
character which one forms of him, from reading his works, is of the 
austere, rather than the gentle kind. He is on every occasion grave, 
serious, passionate; takes every thing on a high tone; never lets 
himself down, nor attempts any thing like pleasantry. If any fault 
can be found with his admirable eloquence, it is, that he sometimes 
borders on the hard and dry. He may be thought to want smooth¬ 
ness and grace; which Dionysius of Halicarnassus attributes to his 
imitating too closely the manner of Thucydides, who was his great 


LECT. XXV.] 


QUESTIONS. 


273 


model for style, and whose history he is said to have written eight 
times over with his own hand. But these defects are far more than 
compensated, by that admirable and masterly force of masculine elo¬ 
quence, which, as it overpowered all who heard it, cannot, at this 
day, be read without emotion. 

After the days of Demosthenes, Greece lost her liberty; eloquence 
of course languished, and relapsed again into the feeble manner in¬ 
troduced by the rhetoricians and sophists. Demetrius Phalerius, who 
lived in the next age to Demosthenes, attained indeed some charac¬ 
ter, but he is represented to us as a flowery, rather than a persuasive 
speaker, who aimed at grace rather than substance. ‘ Delectabat 
Athenienses,’ says Cicero, ‘ magis quam inflammabat.’ ‘ He amused 
the Athenians, rather than warmed them.’ And after his time, we 
hear of no more Grecian orators of any note. 


QUESTIONS. 


Having finished that part of the 
course which i elates to language and 
style, what are we now to do? With 
what do we begin ? In treating of this, 
what is to be considered ? Before enter¬ 
ing upon any of these heads, what 
may be proper ? Why does our author 
hope that this detail will be an useful 
one ? Why is it the more necessary to 
ascertain the proper notion of elo¬ 
quence? Hence, what has been the 
consequence ? Why does a plain man 
hear you speak of eloquence with very 
little attention; and what says he ? 
Under what circumstances would he be 
in the right ? From what does it appear 
that, to be truly eloquent, is to speak to 
the purpose ? How is this illustrated ? 
Who, therefore, is the most eloquent 
man; and what remark follows ? What 
does the definition of eloquence, com¬ 
prehend? W T hen does the power of 
eloquence chiefly appear; and why? 
This being once established, what con¬ 
sequence follows? How does it appear, 
that good sense is the foundation of all ? 
In order to persuade a man of sense, 
what must you first do; and how, only, 
is this to be done? To what observation 
does this lead ? What are the respec¬ 
tive effects of conviction and persua¬ 
sion? How is this illustrated? Under 
what circumstances should conviction 
and persuasion go together ? But, from 
the constitution of our nature, what re¬ 
sults; and what follows? Of convic¬ 
tion, however, what is observed; and 
why must an orator first bend his 
strength to gain it? But, in order to 
persuade, what is necessary; and 
hence, what follows ? What objection 
may hence be formed against eloquence? 


As there is no doubt that it may, whaf, 
conclusion is drawn? But why should 
no man think of forming an argument 
from this, against the cultivation of our 
reasoning powers ? Give truth and vir¬ 
tue the same arms that you give vice 
and falsehood, and what will be the 
consequence ? Of what is eloquence not 
the invention? How does it appear, 
that nature teaches every man to be 
eloquent ? What, only, does the art of 
oratory propose; and what follows? 
How many degrees of eloquence may 
we distinguish; and what is the first ? 
What examples of it are given? Why 
is not this ornamental sort of composi¬ 
tion to be rejected ? But of it, what 
must be confessed? What is a second, 
and higher degree of eloquence? 
Within this compass, is chiefly em¬ 
ployed what species of eloquence? But 
what is the third, and still higher de¬ 
gree of eloquence? What opens the 
most illustrious field to this species of 
eloquence; and what, also, admits it? 
What does our author here observe; 
and by if, what is meant ? How is this 
illustrated ? When is passion universal¬ 
ly found to exalt all the human pow¬ 
ers ; and what is its influence on the 
mind ? Why does a man, actuated by 
a strong passion, become much greater 
than he is at other times? With re¬ 
spect to what, is the power of persua¬ 
sion felt; and when is almost every 
man eloquent ? Of him, what is then 
observed; and what does he then do? 
Of what, is this the foundation ? This 
principle being once admitted, that all 
high eloquence flows from passion, what 
consequences follow? Of these idea*, 
what is observed ? From what has ah 






273 a 


QUESTIONS, 


[LECT. XXV. 


ready been said, what is evident; and 
what does it require? Viewing it as the 
art of persuasion, in its lowest state 
what does it require; and what does it 
also require, in its highest degrees? 
To what do we next proceed? What 
observation is made by several critics ? 
Of Longinus, what is here observed; 
and of liberty, what does he remark ? 
What does he say of all other qualifica¬ 
tions? How must this reasoning be un¬ 
derstood ; and why ? What illustration 
of this remark is given ? Of French 
sermons and orations, what is observed? 
Of what kind, however, is their elo¬ 
quence? Where, only, is high, manly, 
and forcible eloquence, to be looked for? 
How is this remark illustrated ? Where, 
only, can it be employed; and from what 
is it excluded ? Where may we expect 
that true eloquence will be best under¬ 
stood ? Hence, in tracing the rise of 
oratory, what need we not do ? In those 
ages, what existed ? Of the first ages, 
what is there reason to believe; and to 
what was this owing? What, in this 
state, had an ample field ? But, what 
follows ? Why were more of those re¬ 
finements of society, which make pub¬ 
lic speaking an object of importance, 
introduced in the first empires ? When 
do we find the first remarkable appear¬ 
ance of eloquence as the art of persua¬ 
sion ? Of these, what is observed; and, 
therefore, what follows ? 

How was Greece divided; and how 
were these governed? During what 
time may we compute the flourishing 
period of those states to have lasted ? 
Of this period, what is observed? Of 
these republics, which was by far the 
most noted for eloquence, and for arts 
of every kind ? Of the Athenians, 
what is observed? What was the 
genius of their government; and of 
what did their legislature consist ? Of 
the latter, what is observed; and there, 
how were affairs conducted? What 
was there done ; and why ? In such a 
state, what would be much studied, as 
the surest means of rising to influence 
and power; of what kind was it; and 
why? In so enlightened and acute a 
nation, what may we expect to find ? 
And, accordingly, what was the re¬ 
sult ? What, notwithstanding, was 
sometimes effected by ambitious dema¬ 
gogues, and corrupt orators; and why? 
When did they distinguish between 
genuine and spurious eloquence'? And 
hence, of Demosthenes, what is ob¬ 


served; and why? When would so¬ 
phistical reasoning have been resented 
and punished by them? Why did their 
greatest orators, on such occasions, 
tremble; and what remark follows? In 
what manner was their eloquence pro¬ 
duced ? Of Pisistratus,what is observed; 
and for what purpose did he employ 
his ability in these arts ? Of the ora¬ 
tors who flourished between his time 
and the Peleponnesian war, what is 
observed? What is said of Pericles? 
How long did he govern Athens by his 
eloquence ; and of it, what is remark¬ 
ed? Hence, what surname was given 
him; and why ? What was it, that 
gave such power to his eloquence? 
What is further observed of him? 
What remarkable particular is record¬ 
ed of him by Suidas ? Posterior to Pe¬ 
ricles, who arose ; and what is said of 
them? What says Cicero of the man¬ 
ner of oratory that then prevailed ? 
This manner is very different from 
what ? To what did the power of elo¬ 
quence give birth, after the days of 
Cicero ? Of these sophists, what is ob¬ 
served ? What is remarked of Gorgias ? 
Whence do we learn his style and 
manner; and what is said of it ? With 
what did these rhetoricians not content 
themselves ; but what did they possess? 
Upon this plan, they were the first that 
treated of what ? In the hands of such 
men, what may we easily believe ? To 
them who opposed himself? How did 
he explode their sophistry; and what 
did he endeavour to effect? In the 
same age, who flourished; what was 
he; and what did he acquire ? With 
what are his orations filled? In what 
did he never engage; and what fol¬ 
lows ? What does Cicero allow ? Of the 
style of Gorgias of Leontium, what 
is observed; and also of the style of 
Isocrates ? How much time did he em¬ 
ploy in composing his panegyric; and 
of this, what is remarked ? What has 
Dionysius given us upon the orations 
of Isocrates ? What does he commend; 
but what does he censure? What does 
he hold him to be ? In Cicero’s critical 
works, what is observed of him ? In 
one of his treatises, what does he tell 
us? Why does the manner of Isocrates 
generally catch young people ? But 
when they come to write or speak for 
the world, what will they find? To 
what did the reputation of Isocrates 
prompt Aristotle ? What does he seem 
to have had in view ? What other two 







LECT. XXVI.] 


QUESTIONS. 


273 G 


orators belong also to this period ? Of 
Lysias, what is observed; and what is 
said of Isgeus? What circumstances, 
in the case of Demosthenes, are very 
encouraging to those who study elo¬ 
quence ; and why ? Despising the af¬ 
fected and florid manner of that age, 
to wiiat did he -return? Of the field 
that his capital orations opened to him 
what is observed ? What is the subject 
of them? In what manner does he 
prosecute this end ? How does he treat 
his contemporary orators, who were in 
Philip’s interest ? What does he do be¬ 
sides prompting to rigorous conduct ? 
What is the strain of these orations ? In 
what manner do they proceed ? Of his 
figures, what is observed ? What is it 
that forms his character? How is this 
illustrated? In contrast with whom 
does Demosthenes appear to great ad¬ 
vantage ; and of the latter, what is ob¬ 
served ? Describe, particularly, the 
manner of the two orators, in contrast 
with each other? How is the style of 
Demosthenes described ? Of his action, 


and pronunciation what is observed ? 
From reading his works, what charac¬ 
ter would one naturally form of him; 
and why ? On what does he sometimes 
border ? To what is this want of smooth¬ 
ness and grace to be attributed ? But, by 
what are these defects more than com¬ 
pensated ? What was the consequence 
of the loss of liberty in Greece ? Of De¬ 
metrius Phalerius what is observed ? 


ANALYSIS. 

Eloquence. 

1. Introductory remarks. 

2. The definition of eloquence. 

a. Conviction and persuasion contrast¬ 
ed. 

e. Objections to it considered. 

Degrees of Eloquence. 

1. To please only. 

2. To please, to inform, to instruct, &c. 

3. To interest, to agitate, &c. 
a. The offspring of passion. 

4. Eloquence to be found in the regions 

of freedom only. 

5. Its origin. 
a. Athens. 

g. Pisistratus, Pericles, Isocrates, &e 
b. Demosthenes. 


LECTURE XXVI. 

HISTORY OF ELOQUENCE CONTINUED—ROMAN 
ELOQUENCE.—CICERO.—MODERN ELOQUENCE. 

Having treated of the rise of eloquence, and of its state among 
the Greeks, we now proceed to consider its progress among the Ro¬ 
mans, where we shall find one model, at least, of eloquence, in its 
most splendid and illustrious form. The Romans were long a mar¬ 
tial nation, altogether rude, and unskilled in arts of any kind. Arts 
were of a late introduction among them ; they were not known till 
after the conquest of Greece ; and the Romans always acknowledge 
the Grecians as their masters in every part of learning. 

Grecia capta ferum victorum cepit, et artes 

Intulit agresti Latio.*- Hor. Epist. ad Aug. 

As the Romans derived their eloquence, poetry, and learning, from 
the Greeks, so they must be confessed to be far inferior to them in 
genius for all these" accomplishments. They were a more grave and 
magnificent, but a less acute and sprightly people. They had neither 
the vivacity nor the sensibility of the Greeks; their passions were 
not so easily moved, nor their conceptions so lively ; in comparison 
of them, they were a phlegmatic nation. Their language resembled 
their character; it was regular, firm, and stately ; but wanted that 
simple and expressive naivete, and, in particular, that flexibility to 
suit every different mode and species of composition, for which the 
Greek tongue is distinguished above that of every other country. 

* When conquer’d Greece brought in her captive arts, 

She triumph’d o’er her savage conquerors’ hearts; 

Taught our rough verse its numbers to refine, 

And our rude style with elegance to shine, Francis. 














274 


CICERO. 


[lect. xxvi- 


Graiis ingenium, Graiis dedit ore rotundo 

Musa loqui.*- Ars. Poet. 

And hence, when we compare together the various rival produc¬ 
tions of Greece and Rome, we shall always find this distinction ob¬ 
tain, that in the Greek productions there is more native genius; in the 
Roman, more regularity and art. What the Greeks invented, the 
Romans polished; the one was the original, rough sometimes, and 
incorrect; the other, a finished copy. 

As the Roman government, during the republic, was of the popu¬ 
lar kind, there is no doubt but that, in the hands of the leading men, 
public speaking became early an engine of government, and was em¬ 
ployed for gaining distinction and power. But in the rude unpolish¬ 
ed times of the state, their speaking was hardly of that sort that 
could be called eloquence. Though Cicero, in his Treatise, 6 De 
Claris Oratoribus,’ endeavours to give some reputation to the elder 
Cato, and those who were his contemporaries, yet he acknowledges it 
to have been ‘ Asperum ethorridum genus dicendi,’ a rude and harsh 
strain of speech. It was not till a short time preceding Cicero’s age, 
that the Roman orators rose into any note. Crassus and Antonius, 
two of the speakers in the dialogue DeOratore, appear to have been 
the most eminent, whose different manners Cicero describes with 
great beauty in that dialogue, and in his other rhetorical works. But 
as none of their productions are extant, nor any of Hortensius’s, who 
was Cicero’s contemporary and rival at the bar, it is needless to trans¬ 
scribe from Cicero’s writings the account which he gives of those 
great men, and of the character of their eloquence.! 

The object in this period, most worthy to draw our attention, is 
Cicero himself; whose name alone suggests every thing that is splen¬ 
did in oratory. With the history of his life, and with his character 
as a man and a politician, we have not at present any direct concern. 
We consider him only as an eloquent speaker; and in this view, it is 
our business to remark both his virtues and his defects, if he has any. 
His virtues are, beyond controversy, eminently great. In all his ora¬ 
tions there is high art. He begins, generally, with a regular exordi¬ 
um ; and with much preparation and insinuation prepossesses the hear¬ 
ers, and studies to gain their affections. His method is clear,and his 
arguments are arranged with great propriety.. His method is indeed 
more clear than that of Demosthenes; and this is one advantage 
which he has over him. We find every thing in its proper place; 
he never attempts to move, till he has endeavoured to convince: 
and in moving, especially the softer passions, he is very successful. 
No man knew the power and force of words better than Ci¬ 
cero. He rolls them alon: with the greatest beauty and pomp; 

* To her lov’d Greeks the muse indulgent gave, 

To her lov’d Greeks with greatness to conceive; 

And in sublimer tone their language raise: 

Her Greeks were only covetous of praise. Francis. 

+ Such as are desirous of particular information on this head, had better have 
recourse to the original, by reading Cicero’s three books de Oratore, and his other two 
treatises, entitled, the one Brutus, Sive de Claris Oratoribus ; the other, Orator, ad M 
Brutum ; which, on several accounts, well deserve perusal. 




U2CT. XXVlJ] 


CICERO. 


275 


and, in the structure of his sentences, is curious and exact to the high¬ 
est degree. He is always full and flowing, never abrupt. He is a 
great amplifier of every subject; magnificent, and in his sentiments 
highly moral. His manner is on the whole diffuse, yet it is often hap¬ 
pily varied, and suited to the subject. In his four orations, for in¬ 
stance, against Catiline, the tone and style of each of them, parti¬ 
cularly the first and last, is very different, and accommodated with a 
great deal of judgment to the occasion, and the situation in which 
they were spoken. When a great public object roused his mind, and 
demanded indignation and force, he departs considerably from that 
loose and declamatory manner to which he leans at other times, and 
becomes exceedingly cogent and vehement. This is the case in 
his orations against Anthony, and in those two against Verres and 
Catiline. 

Together with those high qualities which Cicero possesses, he is 
not exempt from certain defects, of which it is necessary to take 
notice. For the Ciceronian eloquence is a pattern so dazzling by 
its beauties, that, if not examined with accuracy and judgment, it 
is apt to betray the unwary into a faulty imitation; and I am of opi¬ 
nion, that it has sometimes produced this effect. In most of his ora¬ 
tions, especially those composed in the earlier part of his life, there 
is too much art; even carried the lepgth of ostentation. There is 
too visible a parade of eloquence. He seems often to aim at ob¬ 
taining admiration, rather than at operating conviction, by what he 
says. Hence, on some occasions, he is showy rather than solid; and 
diffuse, where he ought to have been pressing. His sentences are, 
at all times, round and sonorous; they cannot be accused of mono¬ 
tony, for they possess variety of cadence; but, from too great a stu¬ 
dy of magnificence, he is sometimes deficient in strength. On all 
occasions, where there is the least room for it, he is full of himself. 
His great actions, and the real services which he had performed to 
his country, apologized for this in part; ancient manners, too, im¬ 
posed fewer restraints from the side of decorum; but, even after 
these allowances made, Cicero’s ostentation of himself cannot be 
wholly palliated; and his orations, indeed all his works, leave on 
our minds the impression of a good man, but withal, of a vain man. 

The defects which we have now taken notice of in Cicero’s elo¬ 
quence, were not unobserved by his own contemporaries. This we 
learn from Quintilian, and from the author of the dialogue, i de Causis 
Corrupts Eloquentiae.’ Brutus, we are informed, called him, ‘ frac- 
tum et elumbem,’ broken and enervated. ‘ Suorum temporum ho¬ 
mines,’ says Quintilian, ‘ incessere audebant eum ut tumidiorem et 
Asianum, et redundantem, et in repetitionibus nimium, et in salibus 
aliquandofrigidum, et in compositionefractum etexsultantem, et pe- 
ne viro molliorem.’* These censures were undoubtedly carried too 


* 1 His contemporaries ventured to reproach him as swelling, redundant, and Asia¬ 
tic ; too frequent in repetitions ; in his attempts towards wit sometimes cold ; and in 
the strain of his composition, feeble, desultory, and more effeminate than became a 
man.’ 

2R 



276 


COMPARISON OF 


[lect. XXVI 


far; and savour of malignity and personal enmity. They saw his de¬ 
fects, but they aggravated them; and the source of these aggrava¬ 
tions can be traced to the difference which prevailed in Rome, in Ci¬ 
cero’s days, between two great parties, with respect to eloquence, 
the‘Attici,’ and the ‘ Asiani.’ The former,who called themselves 
the Attics, were the patrons of what they conceived to be the chaste, 
simple,and natural style of eloquence; from which they accused Ci¬ 
cero as having departed, and as leaning to the florid Asiatic manner. 
In several of his rhetorical works, particularly in his ‘ Orator ad Bru- 
tum,’ Cicero, in his turn, endeavours to expose this sect, as substitut¬ 
ing a frigid and jejune manner, in place of the true Attic eloquence; 
and contends, that his own composition was formed upon the real At¬ 
tic style. In the 10th chapter of the last book of Quintilian’s Insti¬ 
tutions, a full account is given of the disputes between these two par¬ 
ties; and of the Rhodian, or middle manner, between the Attics and 
the Asiatics. Quintilian himself declares on Cicero’s side; and, 
whether it be called Attic or Asiatic, prefers the full, the copious, 
and the amplifying style. He concludes with this very just observa¬ 
tion : 4 Plures sunt eloquentiae facies; sed stultissimum est quaerere, 
ad quam recturus se sit orator; cum omnis species, quae modo recta 
est, habeat usum. Utetur enim, ut res exiget, omnibus; nec pro 
causa modo, sed pro partibus causae.’* 

On the subject of comparing Cicero and Demosthenes, much 
has been said by critical writers. The different manners of these 
two princes of eloquence, and the distinguishing characters of each, 
are so strongly marked in their writings, that the comparison is, in 
many respects, obvious and easy. The character of Demosthenes 
is vigour and austerity; that of Cicero is gentleness and insinuation. 
In the one, you find more manliness; in the other, more ornament. 
The one is more harsh, but more spirited and cogent; the other 
more agreeable, but withal looser and weaker. 

To account for this difference without any prejudice to Cicero, it 
has been said, that we must look to the nature of their different 
auditories; that the refined Athenians followed with ease the con¬ 
cise and convincing eloquence of Demosthenes : but that a manner 
more popular, more flowery and declamatory, was requisite in 
speaking to the Romans, a people less acute, and less acquainted 
with the arts of speech. But this is not satisfactory. For we must 
observe, that the Greek orator spoke much oftener before a mixed 
multitude, than the Roman. Almost all the public business of 
Athens was transacted in popular assemblies. The common people 
were his hearers, and his judges. Whereas, Cicero generally ad¬ 
dressed himself to the * Patres Conscripti,’ or in criminal trials to 
the Prgetor, and the select judges; and it cannot be imagined, that 
the persons of highest rank, and best education in Rome, required a 

* ‘ Eloquence admits of many different forms • and nothing can be more foolish 
than to inquire, by which of them an orator is to regulate his composition: since 
every form, which is in itself just, has its own place and use. The orator, according 
as circumstances require, will employ them all; suiting them not only to the cause or 
subject of which he treats, but to the different parts of that subject.’ 



Iect.xxvi.] CICERO AND DEMOSTHENES. 


277 


more diffuse manner of pleading than the common citizens of 
Athens, in order to make them understand the cause, or relish the 
speaker. Perhaps we shall come nearer the truth, by observing, 
that to unite all the qualities, without the least exception, that 
form a perfect orator, and to excel equally in each of those quali¬ 
ties, is not to be expected from the limited powers of human ge¬ 
nius. The highest degree of strength is, I suspect, never found 
united with the highest degree of smoothness and ornament; equal 
attention to both are incompatible; and the genius that carries or¬ 
nament to its utmost length, is not of such a kind as can excel as 
much in vigour. For there plainly lies the characteristical difference 
between these two celebrated orators. 

It is a disadvantage to Demosthenes, that besides his conciseness, 
which sometimes produces obscurity, the language in which he 
writes is less familiar to most of us than the Latin, and that we 
are less acquainted with the Greek antiquities than we are with the 
Roman. We read Cicero with more ease, and of course with more 
pleasure. Independent of this circumstance, too, he is, no doubt, 
in himself, a more agreeable writer than the other. But notwith¬ 
standing this advantage, I am of opinion, that were the state in dan¬ 
ger, or some great national interest at stake, which drew the serious 
attention of the public, an oration in the spirit and strain of Demosthe¬ 
nes would have more weight, and produce greater effects,than one in 
the Ciceronian manner. Were Demosthenes’ Philippics spoken 
in a British assembly, in a similar conjuncture of affairs, they would 
convince and persuade at this day. The rapid style, the vehement 
reasoning, the disdain, anger, boldness, freedom, which perpe¬ 
tually animate them, would render their success infallible over any 
modern assembly. I question whether the same can be said of 
Cicero’s orations; whose eloquence, however beautiful, and how¬ 
ever well suited to the Roman taste, yet borders oftener on decla¬ 
mation, and is more remote from the manner in which we now ex¬ 
pect to hear real business and causes of importance treated.* 

In comparing Demosthenes and Cicero, most of the French 
critics are disposed to give the preference to the latter. P. Rapin the 
Jesuit, in the parallels which he has drawn between some of the 
most eminent Greek and Roman writers, uniformly decides in 
favour of the Roman. For the preference which he gives to Ci¬ 
cero, he assigns, and lays stress on, one reason of a pretty extraor¬ 
dinary nature; viz. that Demosthenes could not possibly have so 
complete an insight as Cicero into the manners and passions of 
men: Why?—Because he had not the advantage of perusing Aris¬ 
totle’s Treatise of Rhetoric, wherein, says our critic, he has fully 
laid open that mystery ; and, to support this weighty argument, he 
enters into a controversy with A. Gellius, in order to prove that 
Aristotle’s Rhetoric was not published till after Demosthenes had 

* In this judgment I concur with Mr. David Hume, in his Essay upon Eloquence. 
He gives it as his opinion,that of all human productions, the orations of Demosthenes 
present to us the models which approach the nearest to perfection. 




278 


CICERO AND DEMOSTHENES. [lect. xxvi, 

spoken, at least, his most considerable orations. Nothing can be 
more childish. Such orators as Cicero and Demosthenes, derived 
their knowledge of the human passions, and their power of moving 
them, from higher sources than any treatise of rhetoric. One 
French critic has indeed departed from the common track; and, 
after bestowing on Cicero those just praises to which the consent of 
so many ages shows him to be entitled, concludes, however, with 
giving the palm to Demosthenes. This is Fenelon, the famous 
archbishop of Cambray, and author of Telemachus; himself sure¬ 
ly no enemy to all the graces and flowers of composition. It is in 
his Reflections on Rhetoric and Poetry, that he gives this judgment; 
a small tract, commonly published along with his dialogues on elo¬ 
quence.* These dialogues and reflections are particularly worthy 
of perusal, as containing, I think, the justest ideas on the subject 
that are to be met with in any modern critical writer. 

The reign of eloquence, among the Romans, was very short. 
After the age of Cicero, it languished, or rather expired; and we 
have no reason to wonder at this being the case. For not only 
was liberty entirely extinguished, but arbitrary power felt in its 
heaviest and most oppressive weight; Providence having, in its 
wrath, delivered over the Roman empire to a succession of some 
of the most execrable tyrants that ever disgraced and scourged the 
human race. Under their government it was naturally to be 
expected that taste would be corrupted, and genius discouraged. 
Some of the ornamental arts, less intimately connected with liber¬ 
ty, continued, for a while, to prevail; but for that masculine 
eloquence, which had exercised itself in the senate, and in the 
public affairs, there was no longer any place. The change that 
was produced on eloquence, by the nature of the government, 
and the state of the public manners, is beautifully described in the 
Dialogue de CausiscorruptseEloquentke,which is attributed by some 
to Tacitus, by others, to Quintilian. Luxury, effeminacy, and flat¬ 
tery, overwhelmed all. The forum, where so many great affairs 
had been transacted, was now become a desert. Private causes were 
still pleaded ; but the public was no longer interested; nor any gen¬ 
eral attention drawn to what passed there : ‘ Unus inter hsec, et alter, 

* As his expressions are remarkably happy and beautiful, the passage here re¬ 
ferred to deserves to be inserted. ‘Je ne crains pas de dire, que Demosthene me 
paroit superieur k Cic&ron. Je proteste que personne n’admire plus Ciceron que 
je ne fais. II embellit tout ce qu’il touche. II fait honneur a la parole. II fait des 
mots ce qu’un autre n’en sauroit faire. II a je ne sais combien de sortes d’esprits. 

11 est m£me court, et vehement, toutes les fois qu’il veut I’etre ; contre Catiline*, 
contre Verres, contre Antoine. Mais on remarque quelque parure dans sons dis¬ 
cours. L’art y est merveilleux ; mais on l’entrevoit. L’orateur en pensant au 
salut de la republique, ne s’oublie pas, et ne se laisse pas oublier. Demosthene 
paroit sortir de soi, et ne voir que la patrie II ne cherche point le beau ; il le 
fait sans y penser. 11 est au-dessus de l’admiration. II se sert de la parole 
comme un homme modeste de son habit, pour se couvrir. II tonne ; il foudroye! 
C’est un torrent qui entraine tout. On ne peut le critiquer, parcequ’on est! 
saisi. On pcnse aux choses qu’il dit, et non k ses paroles On le perd de vue. 
On n’est occup6 que de Phillippe qui envahit tout. Je suis charm£ de ces deux 
orateurs : mais j’avoue que je suis moins touchy de l’art infini, et de la magnifjque 
eloquence de Cic6ron que dela rapide simplicity de Demosthene.’ 




&ect. xxvi.] DECAY OF ROMAN ELOQUENCE. 


279 


dicenti, assistit; et res velut in solitudine agitur. Oratori autem 
clamore plausuque opus est, et velut quodam theatro, qualia quo- 
tidie antiquis oratoribus contingebant; cum tot ac tam nobiles 
forum coarctarent: cum clientelae, et tribus, et municipiorum lega- 
tiones, periclitantibus assisterent; cum in plerisque judiciis cre- 
deret populus Romanus sua interesse quid judicaretur.’* 

In the schools of the declaimers, the corruption of eloquence was 
completed. Imaginary and fantastic subjects, such as had no refer¬ 
ence to real life, or business, were made the themes of declamation; 
and all manner of false and affected ornaments were brought into vogue: 
‘ Pace vestra liceat dixisse/ says Petronius Arbiter, to the declaim¬ 
ers of his time, ‘ primi omnem eloquentiam perdidistis. Levibus enim 
ac inanibus sonis ludibria quaedam excitando, effecistis ut corpus ora- 
tionis enervaretur atque caderet. Et ideo ego existimo adolescentulos 
in scholis stultissimos fieri, quia nihil ex iis, quae in usu habemus, aut 
audiunt, aut vident; sed piratas cum catenis in littore stantes; et tyran- 
nos edicta scribentes quibus imperent filiis ut patrum suorum capita 
praecidant: sed responsa, inpestilentia data, ut virgines tres aut plures 
immolentur; sed mellitos verborum globulos, et omnia quasi papa- 
vere, et sesamo sparsa. Qui inter haec nutriuntur, non magis sapere 
possunt, quam bene olere qui in culina habitant.’! In the hands of 
the Greek rhetoricians, the manly and sensible eloquence of their 
first noted speakers, degenerated, as I formerly showed, into subtil- 
ty and sophistry; in the hands of the Roman declaimers, it passed 
into the quaint and affected; into point and antithesis. This corrupt 
manner begins to appear in the writings of Seneca: and shows itself 
also in the famous panegyric of Pliny the Younger on Trajan, which 
may be considered as the last effort of Roman oratory. Though the 
author was a man of genius, yet it is deficient in nature and ease. 
We see throughout the whole, a perpetual attempt to depart from 
the ordinary way of thinking, and to support a forced elevation. 

In the decline of the Roman empire, the introduction of Chris¬ 
tianity gave rise to a new species of eloquence, in the apologies, ser¬ 
mons, and pastoral writings of the Fathers of the Church. Among 

* ‘ The courts of judicature are, at present, so unfrequented, that the orator 
seems to stand alone, and to talk to bare walls. But eloquence rejoices in the bursts 
of loud applause, and exults in a full audience ; such as used to press round the an¬ 
cient orators, when the forum stood crowded with nobles; when a numerous reti¬ 
nue of clients, when foreign ambassadors, when tribes, and whole cities, assisted 
at the debate ; and when, in many trials, the Roman people understood themselves 
to be concerned in the event.’ 

f ‘ With your permission, I must be allowed to say, that you have been the 
first destroyers of all true eloquence. For, by those mock subjects, on which you 
employ your empty arid unmeaning compositions, you have enervated and over¬ 
thrown all that is manly and substantial in oratory. I cannot but conclude, that 
the youth whom you educate, must be totally perverted in your schools, by hearing 
and seeing nothing which has any affinity to real life, or human affairs; but stories 
of pirates standing on the shore, provided with chains for loading their captives, 
and of tyrants issuing their edicts, by which children are commanded to cut off the 
heads of their parents; but responses given by oracles in the time of pestilence, 
that several virgins must be sacrificed; but glittering ornaments of phrase and a 
style highly spiced, if we may say so, with affected conceits. They who are edu¬ 
cated in the midst of such studies, can no more acquire a good taste, than they can 
smell sweet who dwell perpetually in a kitchen.’ 



280 MODERN ELOQUENCE. [lect. xxvi , 

the Latin Fathers, Lactantius and Minutius Felix, are the most re¬ 
markable for purity of style; and, in a later age, the famous St. Au¬ 
gustine possesses a considerable share of sprightliness and strength. 
But none of the Fathers afford any just models of eloquence. 
Their language, as soon as we descend to the third or fourth centu¬ 
ry, becomes harsh ; and they v are, in general, infected with the taste 
of that age, a love of swoln and strained thoughts, and of the play 
of words. Among the Greek Fathers, the most distinguished, by 
far, for his oratorial merit, is St. Chrysostom. JET is language is pure; 
his style highly figured. He is copious, smooth, and sometimes pa¬ 
thetic. But he retains, at the same time, much of that character 
which has been always attributed to the Asiatic eloquence, diffuse 
and redundant to a great degree, and often overwrought and tumid. 
He may be read, however, with advantage, for the eloquence of the 
pulpit, as being freer from false ornaments than the Latin Fathers. 

As there is nothing more that occurs to me, deserving particular 
attention in the middle age, I pass now to the state of eloquence in 
modern times. Here it must be confessed, that, in no European 
nation, has public speaking been considered so great an object, 
or been cultivated with so much care, as in Greece or Rome. Its 
reputation has never been so high; its effects have never been so 
considerable; nor has that high and sublime kind of it, which pre¬ 
vailed in those ancient states, been so much as aimed at: notwith¬ 
standing too, that a new profession has been established, which gives 
peculiar advantages to oratory, and affords it the noblest field; I 
mean that of the church. The genius of the world seems, in this 
respect, to have undergone some alteration. The two countries 
where we might expect to find most of the spirit of eloquence, are 
France and Great Britain: France, on account of the distinguished 
turn of the nation towards all the liberal arts, and of the encourage¬ 
ment which, for this century past, these arts have received from the 
public ; Great Britain, on account both of the public capacity and 
genius, and of the free government which it enjoys. Yet so" it is, 
that, in neither of those countries, has the talent of public speaking 
risen near to the degree of its ancient splendour; while in other 
productions of genius, both in prose and in poetry, they have con¬ 
tended for the prize with Greece and Rome; nay, in some compo¬ 
sitions, they may be thought to have surpassed them. The names of De¬ 
mosthenes and Cicero stand, at this day, unrivalled in fame; and it 
would be held presumptuous and absurd to pretend to place any 
modern whatever in the same, or even in a nearly equal rank. 

It seems particularly surprising, that Great Britain should not have 
made a more conspicuous figure in eloquence than it has hitherto at¬ 
tained; when we consider the enlightened, and, at the same time, 
the iree and bold genius of the country, which seems not a little to 
favour oratory; and when we consider that, of all the polite nations, 
it alone possesses a popular government, or admits into the legisla¬ 
ture, such numerous assemblies as can be supposed to lie under the 
dominion of eloquence.* Notwithstanding th is advantage, it must 

Mr. Hume, in his Essay on Eloquence, makes this observation, and illustrates 



581 


XjECt. xxvi.] MODERN ELOQUENCE. 

be confessed, that in most parts of eloquence, we are undoubtedly 
inferior, not only to the Greeks and Romans by many degrees, but 
also in some respects to the French. We have philosophers, eminent 
and conspicuous, perhaps, beyond any nation, in every branch of 
science. We have both taste and erudition, in a high degree. We have 
historians, we have poets of the greatest name; but of orators, or 
public speakers, how little have we to boast? And where are the 
monuments of their genius to be found Pin every period we have 
had some who made a figure, by managing the debates in parlia¬ 
ment ; but that figure was commonly owing to their wisdom or their 
experience in business, more than to their talent for oratory; and 
unless in some few instances, wherein the power of oratory has ap¬ 
peared, indeed, with much lustre, the art of parliamentary speak¬ 
ing rather obtained to several a temporary applause, than confer¬ 
red upon any a lasting renown. At the bar, though questionless 
we have many able pleaders, yet few or none of their pleadings 
have been thought worthy to be transmitted to posterity, or have 
commanded attention, any longer than the cause which was the 
subject of them interested the public: while in France, the plead¬ 
ings of Patru, in the former age, and those of Cochin and 
D’Aguesseau, in later times, are read with pleasure, and are often 
quoted as examples of eloquence by the French critics. In the 
same manner, in the pulpit, the British divines have distinguished 
themselves by the most accurate and rational compositions which, 
perhaps, any nation can boast of. Many printed sermons we have, 
full of good sense, and of sound divinity and morality; but the 
eloquence to be found in them, the power of persuasion, of in¬ 
teresting and engaging the heart, which is, or ought to be, the 
great object of the pulpit, is far from bearing a suitable proportion 
to the excellence of the matter. There are few arts, in my opin¬ 
ion, farther from perfection, than that of preaching is among us; 
the reasons of which, I shall afterwards have occasion to discuss: 
in proof of the fact, it is sufficient to observe, that an English 
sermon, instead of being a persuasive animated oration, seldom rises 
beyond the strain of correct and dry reasoning. Whereas, in the ser¬ 
mons of Bossuet, Massillon, Bourdaloue, and Flechier, among the 
French, we see a much higher species of eloquence aimed at, and in 
a great measure attained, than the British preachers have in view. 

In general, the characteristical difference between the state of 
eloquence in France and in Great Britain is, that the French have 
adopted higher ideas both of pleasing and persuading by means of 
oratory, though, sometimes, in the execution, they fail. In Great 
Britain, we have taken up eloquence on a lower key; but in our 

it with his usual elegance. He, indeed, supposes, that no satisfactory reasons can 
be given to account for the inferiority of modern to ancient eloquence. In this, I 
differ from him, and shall endeavour, before the conclusion of this lecture, to 
point out some causes to which, I think, it may in a great measure be ascribed^ 
in the three great scenes of public speaking. 

36 



282 MODERN ELOQUENCE. [lect. xxvi. 

execution, as was naturally to be expected, have been more cor¬ 
rect. In France, the style of their orators is ornamented with 
bolder figures; and their discourse carried on with more am¬ 
plification, more warmth and elevation. The composition is of¬ 
ten very beautiful; but sometimes, also, too diffuse, and deficient 
in that strength and cogency which renders eloquence powerful; a 
defect owing, perhaps, in part, to the genius of the people, which 
leads them to attend fully as much to ornament as to substance; and, 
in part, to the nature of their government, which,by excluding pub¬ 
lic speaking from having much influence on the conduct of public 
affairs, deprives eloquence of its best opportunity for acquiring 
nerves and strength. Hence the pulpit is the principal field which 
is left for their eloquence. The members, too, of the French aca- 
demy,give harangues at their admission, in which genius often ap¬ 
pears; but, labouring under the misfortune of having no subject to 
discourse upon, they run commonly into flattery and panegyric, the 
most barren and insipid of all topics. 

I observed before, that the Greeks and Romans aspired to a more 
sublime species of eloquence, than is aimed at by the moderns. 
Theirs was of the vehement and passionate kind, by which they 
endeavoured to inflame the minds of their hearers, and hurry their 
imagination away: and, suitable to this vehemence of thought, was 
their vehemence of gesture and action; the ‘supplosio pedis’* the 
£ percussio frontis et femoris,’* were, as we learn from Cicero’s wri¬ 
tings, usual gestures among them at the bar; though now they would 
be reckoned extravagant any where, except upon the stage. Modern 
eloquence is much more cool and temperate; and in Great Britain 
especially, has confined itself almost wholly to the argumentative 
and rational. It is much of that species which the ancient critics 
called the ‘ Tenuis,’or ‘ Subtilis;’ which aims at convincing and 
instructing, rather than affecting the passions, and assumes a tone 
not much higher than common argument and discourse. 

Several reasons may be given, why modern eloquence has been 
so limited and humble in its efforts. In the first place, I am of 
opinion, that this change must, in part, be ascribed to that correct 
turn of thinking, which has been so much studied in modern times. 
It can hardly be doubted, that, in many efforts of mere genius, 
the ancient Greeks and Romans excelled us; but, on the other 
hand, that, in accuracy and closeness of reasoning on many sub¬ 
jects, we have some advantage over them, ought, I think, to be 
admitted also. In proportion as the world has advanced,’philo¬ 
sophy has made greater progress. A certain strictness of good sense 
has, in this island particularly, been cultivated, and introduced into 
every subject. Hence we are more on our guard against the flow¬ 
ers of elocution; we are now on the watch; we are jealous of 
being deceived by oratory. Our public speakers are obliged to be 
more reserved than the ancients, in their attempts to elevate the 


* Vide, De Clar. Orator. 




lect. xxvi.] MODERN ELOQUENCE. 


28 , 


imagination, and warm the passions; and by the influence of pre¬ 
vailing taste, their own genius is sobered and chastened, perhaps, 
in too great a degree. It is likely too, I confess, that what we 
fondly ascribe to our correctness and good sense, is owing, in a 
great measure, to our phlegm and natural coldness. For the vi¬ 
vacity and sensibility of the Greeks and Romans, more especial¬ 
ly of the former, seems to have been much greater than ours, and to 
have given them a higher relish of all the beauties of oratory. 

Besides these national considerations, we must, in the next place, 
attend to peculiar circumstances in the three great scenes of pub¬ 
lic speaking, which have proved disadvantageous to the growth of 
eloquence among us. Though the parliament of Great Britain be 
the noblest field which Europe, at this day, affords to a public speak¬ 
er, yet eloquence has never been so powerful an instrument there, 
as it was in the popular assemblies of Greece and Rome. Under 
some former reigns, the high hand of arbitrary power bore a violent 
sway; and in latter times, ministerial influence has generally pre¬ 
vailed. The power of speaking, though always considerable, yet 
has been often found too feeble to counterbalance either of these; 
and, of course, has not been studied with so much zeal and fervour, 
as where its effect on business was irresistible and certain. 

At the bar, our disadvantage, in comparison with the ancients, is 
great. Among them, the judges were generally numerous; the 
laws were few and simple; the decision of causes was left, in a 
great measure, to equity and the sense of mankind. Here was an 
ample field for what they termed judicial eloquence. But among 
the moderns, the case is quite altered. The system of law is be¬ 
come much more complicated. The knowledge of it is thereby 
rendered so laborious an attainment, as to be the chief object of a 
lawyer’s education, and in a manner, the study of his life. The 
art of speaking is but a secondary accomplishment, to which he 
can afford to devote much less of his time and labour. The bounds 
of eloquence, besides, are now much circumscribed at the bar; 
and, except in a few cases, reduced to arguing from strict law, 
statute, or precedent, by which means knowledge, much more than 
oratory, is become the principal requisite. 

With regard to the pulpit, it has certainly been a great disad¬ 
vantage, that the practice of reading sermons, instead of repeating 
them from memory, has prevailed in England. This may indeed 
have introduced accuracy; but it has done great prejudice to elo¬ 
quence ; for a discourse read is far inferior to an oration spoken. It 
leads to a different sort of composition, as well as of delivery ; and 
can never have an equal effect upon any audience. Another circum¬ 
stance, too, has been unfortunate. The sectaries and fanatics, be¬ 
fore the Restoration, adopted a warm, zealous, and popular manner 
of preaching; and those who adhered to them, in aftertimes, con¬ 
tinued to distinguish themselves by somewhat of the same manner. 
The odium of these sects drove the established church from that 
warmth which they were judged to have carried too far, into the 
2 $ 


284 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect. XXV/, 


opposite extreme of a studied coolness, and composure of manner 
Hence, from the art of persuasion, which preaching ought always to 
be, it has passed, in England, into mere reasoning and instruction; 
which not only has brought down the eloquence of the pulpit to a 
lower tone than it might justly assume ; but has produced this far¬ 
ther effect, that by accustoming the public ear to such cool and dis¬ 
passionate discourses, it has tended to fashion other kinds of publio 
speaking upon the same model. 

Thus I have given some view of the state of eloquence in modem 
times, and endeavoured to account for it. It has, as we have seen, 
fallen below that splendour which it maintained in ancient ages ; 
and from being sublime and vehement, has come down to be tempe¬ 
rate and cool." Yet, still, in that region which it occupies, it admits 
great scope ; and, to the defect of zeal and application, more than 
the want of capacity and genius, we may ascribe its not having 
hitherto attained higher distinction. It is a field where there is 
much honour yet to be reaped; it is an instrument which may be 
employed for purposes of the highest importance. The ancient 
models may still, with much advantage, be set before us for imita¬ 
tion : though, in that imitation, we must doubtless have some re¬ 
gard to what modern taste and modern manners will bear ; of which 
I shall afterwards have occasion to say more. 


QUESTIONS. 


Having treated of the rise of elo¬ 
quence, and of its state among the 
Greeks, to what do we. now proceed; 
and what shall we there find ? Of the 
Romans, what is observed; and what 
did they always acknowledge ? What 
says Horace ? As the Romans derived 
their eloquence, poetry, and learning, 
from the Greeks, what is the conse¬ 
quence ? How did they compare with 
the Greeks ? What is said of their lan¬ 
guage ? Repeat the passage here in¬ 
troduced from Horace. In comparing 
the rival productions of Greece and 
Rome, what shall w;e always find? 
As the Roman government, during the 
republic, was of the popular kind, of 
what is there no doubt ? But, what re¬ 
mark follows ? Though Cicero attempts 
to give some reputation to the elder 
Cato, yet, what does he acknowledge? 
When did Roman orators first rise into 
any note? Of Crassus and Antonius, 
what is observed ? What is also ob¬ 
served of Hortensius? Who, in this pe¬ 
riod, it most worthy of our attention ; 
and what does his name alone sug¬ 
gest ? With what, at present, have we 
no direct concern ? How do we consi¬ 
der him; and in this view, what is it 


our business to do ? Of his virtues, and 
of his orations, what is observed ? How 
does he begin them ; and what is said 
of his method and arguments ? In this 
respect, how does he compare with 
Demosthenes ? How is this illustrated? 
What is observed of his knowledge of 
the force of words; and how does he 
roll them along ? Of him, what is fur¬ 
ther observed; and what is said of his 
manner? Of his four orations against. 
Cataline, what is remarked ? How was 
he affected, when a great public object 
roused his mind ? In what orations is 
this the case? Together with those 
high qualities, from what is he not ex¬ 
empt? Why is it necessary to notice 
them? What prevails in most of his 
orations ? What do they contain; and 
at what does he seem often to aim ? 
Hence, what follows? Of his senten¬ 
ces, what is observed ? Where there is 
the least room for it, of what is he al¬ 
ways full ? What, in part, apologizes 
for this ? But even after all these al¬ 
lowances are made, what impression 
do his works leave upon the mind? 
What evidence have we that Cicero’s 
defects were not unobserved by his 
contemporaries? Of these censures, 





LECT. XXVI.] 


QUESTIONS. 


284 a 


what is observed? What was the 
cause of the aggravation of his defects ? 
Of what were the former the patrons ? 
In several of his rhetorical works, 
what does Cicero, in his turn, do? 
What is given in the tenth chapter of 
the last book of Quintilian’s Institu¬ 
tions ? On whose side does Quintilian 
himself declare ? With what observa¬ 
tion does he conclude his remarks? 
Why is a comparison between Cicero 
and Demosthenes in many respects ob¬ 
vious and easy ? What are their diffe¬ 
rent characters ; and in them respec¬ 
tively, what do we find ? To account 
for this difference, without any preju¬ 
dice to Cicero, what has been said? 
Why is this not satisfactory ? By ob¬ 
serving what, shall we, perhaps, come 
nearer to the truth ? How is this illus¬ 
trated ? What circumstance operates 
against Demosthenes ? As we read Ci¬ 
cero with more ease, what is the con¬ 
sequence ; and what remark follows ? 
Notwithstanding this advantage, of 
what opinion is our author ? What ef¬ 
fect would the Philippics of Demosthe¬ 
nes produce on a British assembly ? 
What would render their effect infalli¬ 
ble over any modern assembly ? What 
does our author here question ; and 
what remark follows ? On this subject, 
what was the opinion of David Hume? 
In favour of whom do the French cri¬ 
tics decide ? Of P. Rapin, what is ob¬ 
served ? For the preference which he 
gives to Cicero, what reasons does he 
assign ; and why ? How does he sup¬ 
port this argument ? Why can nothing 
be more childish than this ? Of one of 
the French critics, what is observed; 
and who is this? In what writings 
does he give this judgment; and of 
them, what is observed ? Of the reign 
of eloquence among the Romans, what 
is observed ? When did it expire ; and 
why ? Under their government, what 
ivas it natural to expect ? What con¬ 
tinued to prevail; but for what was 
there no longer any place ? By whom 
is this change beautifully described; 
and what overwhelmed all ? What 
was now become a desert; and what 
observation follows? How is this illus¬ 
trated ? Where was the corruption of 
eloquence completed ? What were 
made the themes of declamation; and 
what were brought into vogue ? What 
says Petronius Arbiter of the declaim- 
ers of his time; and what remark fol¬ 


lows^ In whose writings does this cor¬ 
rupt manner begin to appear; and 
where, also, does it show itself? Though 
the author was a man of genius, yet in 
what is it deficient, and what do we 
see throughout the whole of it ? 

In the decline of the Roman empire, 
what gave rise to a new species of 
eloquence ; and in what did it appear? 
Among the Latin fathers, who are the 
most remarkable for purity of style; 
and in a late age, of the famous Augus¬ 
tine, what is observed? But, from 
what does it appear that none of the 
fathers afford any just models of elo¬ 
quence? Among the Greek fathers, 
who was the most distinguished; and 
of him, what is observed? To what 
does our author now pass ; and why ? 
Here, what must be confessed ? Of it, 
what is further obser ved; and notwith¬ 
standing what ? How is this accounted 
for? In what two countries might we 
expect to find most of the spirit of elo¬ 
quence ? Why in France ; and why in 
Great Britain ? Yet what follows ? Of 
the names of Demosthenes and Cicero, 
what is here observed ? What seems 
particularly surprising; and why ? On 
this subject, what says Mr. Hume? 
Notwithstanding this advantage, what 
must be confessed? Of our philoso¬ 
phers, of our men of erudition, and of 
our historians and poets, what is ob¬ 
served ? Of our orators, what is ob¬ 
served ; and in every period, what 
have we had ? Of our pleaders at the 
bar, and of their pleadings, what is ob¬ 
served? In this respect, how do the 
French differ from us ? Of the British 
divines in the pulpit, what is observed ? 
How is this remark illustrated ? Of the 
art of preaching among us, what is ob¬ 
served; and of this, what proof is 
given? What, in general, is the cha- 
racteristical difference between the 
state of eloquence in France and in Great 
Britain ? In Great Britain, how have 
we taken up eloquence; and what is 
the consequence? In France, with 
what is the style of their orators orna¬ 
mented ; and in what manner is their 
discourse carried on ? Of the composi¬ 
tion, what is observed ? To what is this 
defect owing? Hence, of the pulpit, 
what is observed ? What is, also, said 
of the members of the French acade¬ 
my? What was before observed? 
Their’s was of what kind; and by if, 
what effect did they endeavour to pro* 




284 b 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect. xxvil 


ducc? And to this vehemence of 
thought, what was suited? What do 
we, on this subject, learn from Cicero ; 
and what is said of them ? Of modern 
eloquence, what is observed; and in 
Great Britain, especially, to what has it 
confined itself? Of what species is it; 
and at what does it aim ? What is the 
first reason assigned for the limited and 
humble efforts of modem eloquence ? 
What cannot be doubted? In what 
proportion has philosophy made pro¬ 
gress? What, in Great Britain, has 
been cultivated and introduced into 
every subject ? Hence, what follows ? 
Of’ our public speakers, what is obser¬ 
ved? What is also likely; and why? 
Besides these national considerations; 
to what must we, in the next place, 
attend? Of the parliament of Great 
Britain, as a field for public speaking, 
what is observed ? What has prevent¬ 
ed the influence of eloquence there ? 
Of the power of speaking, what is ob¬ 
served ; and what follows ? What are 
our disadvantages in comparison with 
the ancients, at the bar ? Here was an 
ample field for what ? How does it ap¬ 
pear that among the moderns, the case 
is quite different? Of the bounds of 


eloquence at the bar, what is observed ? 
With regard to the pulpit, what has 
been a great disadvantage? What 
may this have introduced; but what 
follows ? To what does it lead ? What 
other circumstance has been unfortu¬ 
nate ? To what did the odium of these 
sects drive the established church ? 
Hence, what consequence has resulted? 
Thus, what has been <riven? In it, 
what change has taken place ? Yet, in 
the region which it now occupies, what 
does it admit; and what remark fol¬ 
lows ? In using the ancient models of 
eloquence, to what must we have some- 
regard ? 

ANALYSIS 

1. ,Tb e origin of Roman eloquence. 

a. Cicero. 

a. His excellences and his defects. 

b. Compared with Demosthenes. 

B. Eloquence among the Romans of short 
continuance. 

a. The schools of the declaimers. 

c. A new species of eloquence. 

2. Modern eloquence. 

a. The eloquence of Great Britain. 

b. The eloquence of France. 

c. Reasons for*The limitedness of modern 
eloquence. 

a. The bar. 

b. The pulpit. 


LECTURE XXVII. 


DIFFERENT KINDS OF PUBLIC SPEAKING.—ELO¬ 
QUENCE OF POPULAR ASSEMBLIES.—EX¬ 
TRACTS FROM DEMOSTHENES. 

After the preliminary views which have been given of the nature 
of eloquence in general, and of the state in which it has subsisted in 
different ages and countries, I am now to enter on the consideration 
of the different kinds of public speaking, the distinguishing charac¬ 
ters of each, and the rules which relate to them. The ancients di¬ 
vided all orations into three kinds ; the demonstrative, the delibe¬ 
rative, and the judicial. The scope of the demonstrative was to 
praise or to blame ; that of the deliberative, to advise or to dissuade ; 
that of the judicial, to accuse or to defend. The chief subjects of 
demonstrative eloquence, were panegyrics, invectives, gratulatory 
and funeral orations. The deliberative was employed in matters of 
public concern, agitated in the senate, or before the assemblies of the 
people. The judicial is the same with the eloquence of the bar, 
employed in addressing judges, who have power to absolve or to 
condemn. This division runs through all the ancient treatises on 
rhetoric ; and is followed by the moderns, who copy them. It is a 
division not inartificial; and comprehends most, or all, of the mat¬ 
ters which can be the subject of public discourse. It will, however, 
suit our purpose better, and be found, I imagine, more useful to fo]- 









LECT. XXVII.] 


PUBLIC SPEAKING. 


285 


iow that division which the train of modern speaking naturally points 
out to us, taken from the three great scenes of eloquence, popular 
assemblies, the bar, and the pulpit; each of which has a distinct cha¬ 
racter that particularly suits it. This division coincides in part with 
the ancient one. The eloquence of the bar is precisely the same 
with what the ancients called the judicial. The eloquence of popu¬ 
lar assemblies, though mostly of what they term the deliberative spe¬ 
cies, yet admits also of the demonstrative. The eloquence of the 
pulpit is altogether of a distinct nature, and cannot be properly re¬ 
duced under any of the heads of the ancient rhetoricians. 

To all the three, pulpit, bar, and popular assemblies, belong,in 
common, the rules concerning the conduct of a discourse in all its 
parts. Of these rules I purpose afterwards to treat at large. But 
before proceeding to them, I intend to show, first., what is peculiar to 
each of these three kinds of oratory, in their spirit, character, or 
manner. For every species of public speaking has a manner or 
character peculiarly suited to it; of which it is highly material to 
have a just idea, in order to direct the application of general rules. 
The eloquence of a lawyer is fundamentally different from that of a 
divine, or a speaker in parliament: and to have a precise and proper 
idea of the distinguishing character which any kind of public speak¬ 
ing requires, is the foundation of what is called a just taste iu that 
kind of speaking. 

Laying aside any question concerning the pre-eminence in point 
of rank, which is due to any one of the three kinds before mention¬ 
ed, I shall begin with that which tends to throw most light upon the 
rest, viz. the eloquence of popular assemblies. The most august 
theatre for this kind of eloquence, to be found in any nation of Eu¬ 
rope, is, beyond doubt, the parliament of Great Britain. In meet¬ 
ings,too, of less dignity, it may display itself. Wherever there is a 
popular court, or wherever any number of men are assembled for de¬ 
bate or consultation, there, in different forms, this species of eloquence 
may take place. 

Its object is, or ought always to be, persuasion. There must be 
some end proposed ; some point, most commonly of public utility 
or good, in favour of which we seek to determine the hearers. Now, 
in all attempts to persuade men, we must proceed upon this principle, 
that it is necessary to convince their understanding. Nothing can be 
more erroneous than to imagine, that, because speeches to popular 
assemblies admit more of a declamatory style than some other dis¬ 
courses, they therefore stand less in need of being supported by sound 
reasoning. When modelled upon this false idea, they may have the 
show, but never can produce the effect, of real eloquence. Even the 
show of eloquence which they make, will please only the trifling and 
superficial. For, with all tolerable judges, indeed almost with all men, 
mere declamation soon becomes insipid. Of whatever rank the hear¬ 
ers be, a speaker is never to presume, that by a frothy and ostentatious 
harangue, without solid sense and argument, he can either make im¬ 
pression on them, or acquire fame to himself. It is, at least, a dan¬ 
gerous experiment; for, where such an artifice succeeds once, it will 


ELOQUENCE OF 


[lect. xxvii. 


286 

fail ten times. Even the common people are better judges of argu¬ 
ment ancl good sense, than we sometimes think them; and upon anv 
question of business, a plain man, who speaks to the point without 
art, will generally prevail over the most artful speaker, who deals 
in flowers and ornament, rather than in reasoning. Much more, 
when public speakers address themselves to any assembly where 
there are persons of education and improved understanding, they 
ought to be careful not to trifle with their hearers. 

Let it be ever kept in view, that the foundation of all that can he 
called eloquence, is good sense, and solid thought. As popular as the 
orations of Demosthenes were, spoken to all the citizens of Athens, 
every one who looks into them, must see how fraught they are with 
argument; and how important it appeared to him, to convince the 
understanding, in order to persuade, or to work on the principles of 
action. Hence their influence in his own time; hence their fame at 
this day. Such a pattern as this, public speakers ought to set before 
them for imitation, rather than follow the track of those loose and 
frothy declaimers, who have brought discredit on eloquence. Let it 
he their first study, in addressing any popular assembly to be previous¬ 
ly masters of the business on which they are to speak; to be well 
provided with matter and argument; and to rest upon these the chief 
stress. This will always give to their discourse an air of manliness 
and strength, which is a powerful instrument of persuasion. Orna¬ 
ment, if they have genius for it, will follow of course: at any rate, it 
demands only their secondary study: ‘ Cura sit verborum; solicitu- 
do rerum .- 9 ‘To your expression be attentive; but about your matter 
be solicitous/ is an advice of Quintilian, which cannot be too often 
recollected by all who study oratory. 

In the next place, in order to be persuasive speakers in a popular 
assembly, it is, in my opinion, a capital rule, that we be ourselves per¬ 
suaded of whatever we recommend to others. Never, when it can 
be avoided, ought we to espouse any side of the argument, but what 
we believe to be the true and the right one. Seldom or never will 
a man be eloquent, but when he is in earnest, and uttering his own 
sentiments. They are only the ‘ verse voces ab imo pectore/ the un¬ 
assumed language of the heart or head, that carry the force of con¬ 
viction. In a former lecture, when entering on this subject, I observ¬ 
ed, that all high eloquence must be the offspring of passion, or warm 
emotion. It is this which makes every man persuasive; and gives a 
force to his genius, which it possesses at no other time. Under what 
disadvantage then is he placed, who, not feeling what he utters, must 
counterfeit a warmth to which he is a stranger. 

I know, that young people, on purpose to train themselves to the 
art of speaking, imagine it useful to adopt that side of the question 
under debate, which, to themselves, appears the weakest, and to try 
what figure they can make upon it. But, I am afraid, this is not the 
most improving education for public speaking; and that it tends to 
form them to a habit of flimsy and trivial discourse. Such a liberty 
they should, at no time, allow themselves, unless in meetings where 
no real business is carried on, but where declamation and improve- 


i,ECT. xxvii.] POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. 


287 


went of speech is the sole aim. Nor even in such meetings, would I 
recommend it as the most useful exercise. They will improve them¬ 
selves to more advantage, and acquit themselves with more honour, 
by choosing always that side of the debate to which, in their own 
judgment, they are most inclined, and supporting it by what seems to 
themselves most solid and persuasive. They will acquire the habit, 
of reasoning closely, and expressing themselves with warmth and 
force, much more when they are adhering to their own sentiments, 
than when they are speaking in contradiction to them. In assem¬ 
blies where any real business is carried on, whether that business be 
of much importance or not, it is always of dangerous consequence 
for young practitioners to make trial of this sort of play of speech. 
It may fix an imputation on their characters before they are aware; 
and what they intended merely as amusement, may be turned to the 
discredit, either of their principles or their understanding. 

Debate in popular courts, seldom allows the speaker that full and 
accurate preparation beforehand, which the pulpit always, and the 
bar sometimes, admits. The arguments must be suited to the 
course which the debate takes; and as no man can exactly foresee 
this, one who trusts to a set speech, composed in his closet, will, 
on many occasions, be thrown out of the ground which he had 
taken. He will find it pre-occupied by others, or his reasonings 
superseded by some new turn of the business; and, if he ventures 
to use his prepared speech, it will be frequently at the hazard of 
making an awkward figure. There is a general prejudice with us, 
and not wholly an unjust one, against set speeches in public meet¬ 
ings. The only occasion, when they have any propriety, is, at 
the opening of a debate, when the speaker has it in his power to 
choose his field. But as the debate advances, and parties warm, 
discourses of this kind become more unsuitable. They want the 
native air; the appearance of being suggested by the business that 
is going on; study and ostentation are apt to be visible; and, of 
course, though applauded as elegant, they are seldom so persuasive 
as more free and unconstrained discourses. 

This, however, does not by any means conclude against pre¬ 
meditation of what we are to say; the neglect of which, and the 
trusting wholly to extemporaneous efforts, will unavoidably pro¬ 
duce the habit of speaking in a loose and undigested manner. 
But the premeditation which is of most advantage, in the case 
which we now consider, is of the subject or argument in general, 
rather than of nice composition in any particular branch of it. 
With regard to the matter, we cannot be too accurate in our pre¬ 
paration, so as to be fully masters of the business under considera¬ 
tion; but with regard to words and expression, it is very possible so 
far to over do, as to render our speech stiff and precise. Indeed, 
till once persons acquire that firmness, that presence of mind, and 
command of expression, in a public meeting, which nothing but 
habit and practice can bestow, it may be proper for a young speak¬ 
er to commit to memory the whole of what he is to say. But, 


286 


ELOQUENCE OF 


[LECT. XXVII. 


after some performances of this kind shall have given him boldness, he 
will find it the better method not to confine himself so strictly: 
hut only to write, beforehand, some sentences with which he in¬ 
tends to set out, in order to put himself fairly in the train; and, 
for the rest, to set down short notes of the topics, or principal 
thoughts upon which he is to insist, in their order, leaving the 
words to be suggested by the warmth of discourse. Such short 
notes of the substance of the discourse, will be found of consider¬ 
able service, to those, especially, who are beginning to speak in 
public. They will accustom them to some degree of accuracy, 
which, if they speak frequently, they are in danger too soon of los¬ 
ing. They will even accustom them to think more closely on the 
subject in question ; and will assist them greatly in arranging their 
thoughts with method and order. 

This leads me next to observe, that in all kinds of public speak¬ 
ing, nothing is of greater consequence than a proper and clear 
method. I mean not that formal method of laying down heads 
and subdivisions, which is commonly practised in the pulpit; and 
which, in popular assemblies, unless the speaker be a man of 
great authority and character, and the subject of great importance, 
and the preparation too very accurate, is rather in hazard of dis¬ 
gusting the hearers; such an introduction is presenting always the 
melancholy prospect of a long discourse. But though the method be 
not laid down in form, no discourse, of any length, should be 
without method; that is, every thing should be found in its proper 
place. Every one who speaks, will find it of the greatest advan¬ 
tage to himself to have previously arranged his thoughts, and classed 
under proper heads, in his own mind, what he is to deliver. This 
will assist his memory, and carry him through his discourse with¬ 
out that confusion to which one is every moment subject who has 
fixed no distinct plan of what he is to say. And with respect to the 
hearers, order in discourse is absolutely necessary for making 
any proper impression. It adds both force and light to what is said. 
It makes them accompany the speaker easily and readily, as he goes 
along; and makes them feel the full effect of every argument which 
he employs. Few things, therefore, deserve more to be attended 
to,than distinct arrangement; for eloquence, however great, can ne¬ 
ver produce entire conviction without it. Of the rules of method, 
and the proper distribution of the several parts of a discourse, I am 
hereafter to treat. 

Let us now consider the style and expression suited to the elo¬ 
quence of popular assemblies. Beyond doubt, these give scope 
for the most animated manner of public speaking. The very aspect 
of a large assembly, engaged in some debate of moment, and atten¬ 
tive to the discourse of one man, is sufficient to inspire that man with 
such elevation and warmth, as both gives rise to strong impressions, 
and gives them propriety. Passion easily rises in a great assembly, 
where the movements are communicated by mutual sympathy 
between the orator and the audience. Those bold figures, of 
which I treated formerly as the native language of passion, have 


i*ect. xxvii.] POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. 


289 


then their proper place. That ardour of speech, that vehemence 
and glow of sentiment, which arise from a mind animated and in¬ 
spired by some great and public object, form the peculiar charac¬ 
teristics of popular eloquence, in its highest degree of perfection. 

The liberty, however, which we are now giving of the strong and 
passionate manner to this kind of oratory, must be always understood 
with certain limitations and restraints, which, it will be necessary to 
point out distinctly, in order to guard against dangerous mistakes 
on this subject. 

As, first, the warmth which we express must be suited to the occa¬ 
sion and the subject; for nothing can be more preposterous, than an 
attempt to introduce great vehemence into a subject, which is either 
of slight importance, or which, by its nature, requires to be treated of 
calmly. A temperate tone of speech, is that for which there is most 
frequent occasion; and he who is, on every subject, passionate and ve¬ 
hement, will be considered as a blusterer, and meet with little regard. 

In the second place, we must take care never to counterfeit 
warmth without feeling it. This always betrays persons into an un¬ 
natural manner, which exposes them to ridicule. For, as I have 
often suggested, to support the appearance, without the real feeling 
of passion, is one of the most difficult things in nature. The disguise 
can almost never be so perfect, as not to be discovered. The heart can 
only answer to the heart. The great rule here, as indeed in every 
other case, is, to follow nature; never to attempt a strain of elo¬ 
quence which is not seconded by our own genius. One may be a 
speaker, both of much reputation and much influence, in the calm 
argumentative manner. To attain the pathetic, and the sublime of 
oratory, requires those strong sensibilities of mind, and that high 
power of expression, which are given to few. 

In the third place, even when the'subject justifies the vehement 
manner, and when genius prompts it; when warmth is felt, not 
counterfeited; we must still set a guard on ourselves, not to al¬ 
low impetuosity to transport us too far. Without emotion in the 
speaker, eloquence, as was before observed, will never produce its 
highest effects; but at the same time, if the speaker lose command 
of himself, he will soon lose command of his audience too. He 
must never kindle too soon: he must begin with moderation; and 
study to carry his hearers along with him, as he warms in the pro¬ 
gress of his discourse. For, if he runs before in the course of pas¬ 
sion, and leaves them behind; if they are not tuned, if we may 
speak so, in unison to him, the discord will presently be felt, and be 
very grating. Let a speaker have ever so good reason to be ani¬ 
mated and fired by his subject, it is always expected of him, that 
the awe and regard due to his audience should lay a decent restraint 
upon his warmth, and prevent it from carrying him beyond certain 
bounds. If, when most heated by the subject, he can be so far mas¬ 
ter of himself as to preserve close attention to argument, and even 
to some degree of correct expression, this self-command, this exer¬ 
tion of reason, in the midst of passion, has a wonderful effect both 
2 T 37 


290 


ELOQUENCE OF 


[lect. xxvij. 


to please, and to persuade. It is indeed the master-piece, the high¬ 
est attainment of eloquence; uniting the strength of reason, with 
the vehemence of passion; affording all the advantages of passion 
for the purpose of persuasion, without the confusion and disorder 
which are apt to accompany it. 

In the fourth place, in the highest and most animated strain of 
popular speaking, we must always preserve regard to what the pub¬ 
lic ear will bear. This direction I give, in order to guard against 
an injudicious imitation of ancient orators, who, both in their pro¬ 
nunciation and gesture, and in their figures of expression, used 
a bolder manner than what the greater coolness of modern taste 
will readily suffer. This may, perhaps, as I formerly observed, 
be a disadvantage to modern eloquence. It is no reason why we 
should be too severe in checking the impulse of genius, and con¬ 
tinue always creeping on the ground; but it is a reason, how¬ 
ever, why we should avoid carrying the tone of declamation 
.to a height that would now be reckoned extravagant. Demos¬ 
thenes, to justify the unsuccessful action of Cheronaea, calls up the 
manes of those heroes who fell in the battle of Marathon and Plataea, 
and swears by them, that their fellow-citizens had done well,-in 
their endeavours to support the same cause. Cicero, in his ora¬ 
tion for Milo, implores and obtests the Alban hills and groves, and 
makes a long address to them: and both passages, in these ora¬ 
tors, have a fine effect.* But how few modern orators could ven¬ 
ture on such apostrophes? and what a power of genius would it re¬ 
quire to give such figures now their proper grace, or make them 
produce a due effect upon the hearers ? 

In the fifth and last place, in all kinds of public speaking, but 
especially in popular assemblies, it is a capital rule to attend to all 
the decorums of time, place, and character. No warmth of elo¬ 
quence can atone for the neglect of these. That vehemence, 
which is becoming in a person of character and authority, may be 
unsuitable to the modesty expected from a young speaker. That 
sportive and witty manner which may suit one subject and one as¬ 
sembly^ altogether out of place in a grave cause, and a solemn 
meeting. 4 Caput artis est,’ says Quintilian, 6 decere.’ ‘ The first 
principle of art, is to observe decorum.’ No one should ever rise 
to speak in public, without forming to himself a just and strict idea 
of what suits his own age and character; what suits the subject, 


* J he passage in Cicero is very beautiful,and adorned with the highest colouring 
of his eloquence. ‘ Non est humano consilio, ne mediocri quidem, judices, de- 
orum immortalium cura, res ilia perfecta. Religiones, mehercule, ipsae arceque, 
cum ilium belluam cadere viderunt, commovisse se videntur, et jus in illo suum 
retinuisse. Vos enim jam Albani tumuli, atque luci, vos inquam imploro atque 
obtestor, vosque Albanorum obrutae arae, sacrorum populi Romani sociae et aequales, 
quas ille praeceps amentia, caesis prostratisque, sanctissimis lucis, substruc- 
tionum insanis molibus oppresserat; vestrae turn arae, vestrae religiones viguo 
runt, vestra vis valuit, quam ille omni scclere polluerat. Tuque ex tuo edito 
monte Latiali, sancte Jupiter, cujus ille lacus, nemora, finesque, saepe omni ne- 
fario stupro, scelere macul&rat, aliquando ad eum puniendum, oculos aperuisti; 
vobis ill®, vobis vestro in conspectu, serae, sed justae tamen. et debit® pam® solutae sunt. 




LECT. XXVII.] 


POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. 


291 


the hearers, the place, the occasion: and adjusting the whole train 
and manner of his speaking on this idea. All the ancients insist; 
much on this. Consult the first chapter of the eleventh book of 
Quintilian, which is employed wholly on this point, and is full of 
good sense. Cicero’s admonitions, in his Orator ad Brutum, I 
shall give in his own words, which should never be forgotten by any 
who speak in public. 4 Est eloquentiae, sicut reliquarum rerum, 
fundamentum, sapientia; ut enim in vita, sic in oratione nihil est 
difficillius quam quod deceat videre; hujus ignoratione saepissime 
peccatur ; non enim omnis fortuna, non omnis auctoritas, non omnis 
aetas, nec vero locus, aut tempus, aut auditor omnis, eodem aut ver- 
borum genere tractandus est, aut cententiarum. Semperque in 
omni parte orationis, ut vitae, quid deceat considerandum; quod et 
in re de qua agitur positum est, et in personis et eorum qui dicunt, et 
eorum qui audiunt.’* So much for the considerations that require 
to be attended to, with respect to the vehemence and warmth which 
is allowed in popular eloquence. 

The current of style should in general be full, free, and natural. 
Quaint and artificial expressions are out of place here; and always 
derogate from persuasion. It is a strong and manly style which 
should chiefly be studied; and metaphorical language, when properly 
introduced, produces often a happy effect. When the metaphors are 
warm, glowing, and descriptive, some inaccuracy in them will be 
overlooked, which, in a written composition, would be remarked 
and censured. Amidst the torrent of declamation, the strength of 
the figure makes impression ; the inaccuracy of it escapes. 

With regard to the degree of conciseness or diffuseness suited to 
popular eloquence, it is not easy to fix any exact bounds. I know 
that it is common to recommend a diffuse manner as the most pro¬ 
per. I am inclined, however, to think, that there is danger of er¬ 
ring in this respect; and that by indulging too much in the diffuse 
style, public speakers often lose more in point of strength, than they 
gain by the fullness of their illustration. There is no doubt, that in 
speaking to a multitude, we must not speak in sentences and apo¬ 
thegms : care must be taken to explain and to inculcate; but this care 
may be, and frequently is, carried too far We ought always to 
remember, that how much soever we may be pleased with hearing 
ourselves speak, every audience is very ready to be tired ; and the 
moment they begin to be tired, all our eloquence goes for nothing. A 
loose and verbose manner never fails to create disgust; and, on most 
occasions, we had better run the risk of saying too little than too 
much. Better place our thought in one strong point of view, and 


* ‘ Good sense is the foundation of eloquence, as it is of all other things that are 
valuable. It happens in oratory exactly as it does in life, that frequently nothing 
is more difficult than to discern what is proper and becoming. In consequence of 
mistaking this, the grossest faults are often committed For to the different de¬ 
grees of rank, fortune, and age among men, to all the varieties of time, place, and 
auditory, the same style of language, and the same strain of thought, cannot agree. 
In every part of a discourse, just as in every part of life, we must attend to what is 
suitable and decent : whether that be determined by the nature of the subject of 
which we treat, or by the characters of those who speak, or of those who hear.’ 



292 


EXTRACTS FROM 


[lect. XXVII. 


rest it there, than by turning it into every light, and pouring forth a 
profusion of words upon it, exhaust the attention of our hearers, 
and leave them flat and languid. 

Of pronunciation and delivery, I am hereafter to treat apart. At 
present it is sufficient to observe, that in speaking to mixt assemblies, 
the best manner of delivery is the firm and the determined. An arro¬ 
gant and overbearing manner is indeed always disagreeable; and 
the least appearance of it ought to be shunned: but there is a cer¬ 
tain decisive tone, which may be assumed even by a modest man, 
who is thoroughly persuaded of the sentiments he utters; and 
which is calculated for making a general impression. A feeble and 
hesitating manner bespeaks always some distrust of a man’s own 
opinion; which is, by no means, a favourable circumstance for his 
inducing others to embrace it. 

These are the chief thoughts which have occurred to me from 
reflection and observation, concerning the peculiar distinguishing 
characters of the eloquence proper for popular assemblies. The 
sum of what has been said, is this: the end of popular speaking is 
persuasion; and this must be founded on conviction. Argument 
and reasoning must be the basis, if we would be speakers of busi¬ 
ness, and not mere declaimers. We should be engaged in earnest 
on the side which we espouse; and utter, as much as possible, our 
own, and not counterfeited sentiments. The premeditation should 
be of things, rather than of words. Clear order and method should 
be studied; the manner and expression warm and animated; though 
still, in the midst of that vehemence, which may at times be suita¬ 
ble, carried on under the proper restraints which regard to the audi¬ 
ence, and to the decorum of character, ought to lay on every public 
speaker: the style free and easy; strong and descriptive, rather than 
diffuse; and the delivery determined and firm. To conclude this 
head, let every orator remember, that the impression made by fine 
and artful speaking is momentary; that made by argument and good 
sense, is solid and lasting. 

I shall now, that I may afford an exemplification of that species 
of oratory of which I have been treating, insert some extracts from 
Demosthenes. Even under the great disadvantage of an English 
translation, they will exhibit a small specimen of that vigorous and 
spirited eloquence which I have so often praised. I shall take my 
extracts mostly from the Philippics and Olynthiacs, which were en¬ 
tirely popular orations spoken to the general convention of the citi¬ 
zens of Athens: and, as the subject of both the Philippics, and the 
Olynthiacs, is the same, I shall not confine myself to one oration, 
but shall join together passages taken from two or three of them; 
such as may show his general strain of speaking, on some of the 
chief branches of the subject. The subject in general is, to rouse 
the Athenians to guard against Philip of Macedon, whose growing 
power and crafty policy had by that time endangered, and soon 
after overwhelmed the liberties of Greece. The Athenians began 
to be alarmed; but their deliberations were slow, and their measures 
feeble; several of their favourite orators having been gained bv 


3UECT. xxvn.j 


DEMOSTHENES. 


29S 

Philip’s bribes to favour his cause. In this critical conjuncture of 
affairs, Demosthenes arose. In the following manner he begins his 
first Philippic; which, like the exordiums of all his orations, is sim¬ 
ple and artless.* 

‘ Had we been convened, Athenians! on some new subject of de¬ 
bate, I had waited till most of your usual counsellors had declared 
their opinions. If I had approved of what was proposed by them, I 
should have continued silent; if not, I should then have attempted 
to speak my sentiments. But since those very points on which these 
speakers have often times been heard already, are at this time to be 
considered; though I have arisen first, I presume I may expect your 
pardon; for if they, on former occasions, had advised the proper 
measures, you would not have found it needful to consult at present. 

4 First then, Athenians ! however wretched the situation of our af- 
iairs at present seems, it must not by any means be thought despe¬ 
rate. What I am now going to advance may possibly appear a para¬ 
dox; yet it is a certain truth, that our past misfortunes afford a cir¬ 
cumstance most favourable to our future hopes.t And what is that? 
even that our present difficulties are owing entirely to our total 
indolence, and utter disregard of our own interest. For were we 
thus situated, in spite of every effort which our duty demanded, 
then indeed we might regard our fortunes as absolutely desperate. 
But now, Philip hath only conquered your supineness and inac¬ 
tivity; the state he hath not conquered. You cannot be said to be 
defeated; your force hath never been exerted. 

‘ If there is a man in this assembly who thinks that we must find a 
formidable enemy in Philip, while he views on one hand the nume¬ 
rous armies which surround him, and on the other the weakness of 
our state,despoiled of so much of its dominions, I cannot deny that 
he thinks justly. Yet let him reflect on this: there was a time, Athe¬ 
nians ! when we possessed Pydna, Patidcea, and Melthone, and all that 
country round: when many of the states, now subjected to him, 
were free and independent, and more inclined to our alliance than to 
his. If Philip, at that time weak in himself, and without allies, had 
desponded of success against you, he would never have engaged in 
those enterprises which are now crowned with success, nor could 
have raised himself to that pitch of grandeur at which you now be¬ 
hold him. But he knew well that the strongest places are only prizes 
laid between the combatants, and ready for the conqueror. He 
knew that the dominions of the absent devolved naturally to those 
who are in the field; the possessions of the supine, to the active and 
intrepid. Animated by these sentiments, he overturns whole nations. 
He either rules universally as a conqueror, or governs as a protector. 
For mankind naturally seek confederacy with such as they see re¬ 
solved, and preparing not to be wanting to themselves. 

‘ If you, my countrymen! will now at length be persuaded toenter- 


* In the following extracts, Leland’s translation is mostly followed, 
f This thought is only hinted at in the first Philippic, but brought out more 
fully in the third ; as the same thought, occasioned by similar situations of affairs, 
sometimes occur in the different orations on this subject. 



294 


EXTRACTS FROM 


[lect. XXVII. 


tain the like sentiments; if each of you will be disposed to approve 
himself an useful citizen, to the utmost that his station and abilities 
enable him; if the rich will be ready to contribute, and the young to 
take the field ; in one word, if you will be yourselves, and banish these 
vain hopes which every single person entertains, that the active part 
of public business may lie upon others,and he remain at his ease; 
you may then, by the assistance of the gods, recall those opportuni¬ 
ties which your supineness hath neglected, regain your dominions, 
and chastise the insolence of this man.’ 

‘But when, 0 my countrymen! will you begin to exert your vi¬ 
gour? Do you wait till roused by some dire event? till forced by 
some necessity ? What then are we to think of our present condi¬ 
tion? To freemen, the disgrace attending on misconduct is,in my 
opinion, the most urgent necessity. Or say, is it your sole ambition 
to wander through the public places, each inquiring of the other, 
‘what new advices?’ Can any thing be more new, than that a man 
of Macedon should conquer the Athenians, and give law to Greece! 
‘ Is Philip dead?’—‘ No—but he is sick.’ Pray, what is it to you 
whether Philip is sick or not? supposing he should die, you would 
raise up another Philip, if you continue thus regardless of your in¬ 
terest. 

‘ Many, I know, delight more in nothing than in circulating all 
the rumours they hear as articles of intelligence. Some cry, 
Philip hath joined with the Lacedaemonians, and they are concert¬ 
ing the destruction of Thebes. Others assure us, he hath sent an 
embassy to the king of Persia; others, that he is fortifying places 
in Illyria. Thus we all go about framing our several tales. I do 
believe indeed, Athenians! that he is intoxicated with his greatness, 
and does entertain his imagination with many such visionary pro¬ 
jects, as he sees no power rising to oppose him. But I cannot be 
persuaded that he hath so taken his measures, that the weakest 
among us (for the weakest they are who spread such rumours) 
know what he is next to do. Let us disregard these tales. Let us 
only be persuaded of this, that he is our enemy; that we have long 
been subject to his insolence; that whatever we expected to have 
been done for us by others, hath turned against us; that all the 
resource left, is in ourselves; and that if we are not inclined to carry 
our arms abroad, we should be forced to engage him at home. Let 
us be persuaded of these things, and then we shall come to a pro¬ 
per determination, and be no longer guided by rumours. We need 
not be solicitous to know what particular events are to happen. We 
maybe well assured that nothing good can happen, unless we give 
due attention to our own affairs, and act as becomes Athenians ’ 

‘Were it a point generally acknowledged* that Philip is now at 
actual war with the state, the only thing under deliberation would 
then be, how to oppose him with most safety. But since there are 
persons so strangely infatuated, that although he has already pos¬ 
sessed himself of a considerable part of our dominions, although he is 


* Phi!, ii». 



LECT. XXVII.] 


DEMOSTHENES. 


295 


still extending his conquests; although all Greece has suffered by 
his injustice; yet they can hear it repeated in this assembly, that it 
is some of us who seek to embroil the state in war: this suggestion 
must first be guarded against. I readily admit, that were it in our 
power to determine whether we should be at peace or war, peace, 
il it depended on our option, is most desirable to be embraced. 
But if the other party hath drawn the sword, and gathered his 
armies round him; if he amuses us with the name of peace, while, 
in fact, he is proceeding to the greatest hostilities, what is left for us 
but to oppose him? If any man takes that for a peace, which is 
only a preparation for his leading his forces directly upon us, after 
his other conquests, I hold that man’s mind to be disordered. At 
least, it is only our conduct towards Philip, not Philip’s conduct 
towards us, that is to be termed a peace; and this is the peace 
tor which Philip’s treasures are expended, for which his gold is so 
liberally scattered among our venal orators, that he may be at liberty 
to carry on the war against you, while you make no war on him. 

i Heavens! is there any man of a right mind who would judge 
of peace or war by words, and not by actions? Is there any man 
so weak as to imagine that it is for the sake of those paltry villages 
of Thrace, Drongylus, and Cabyle, and Mastira, that Philip is 
now braving the utmost dangers, and enduring the severity of toils 
and seasons; and that he has no designs upon the arsenals, and the 
navies, and the silver mines of Athens? or that he will take up his 
winter quarters among the cells and dungeons of Thrace, and leave 
you to enjoy all your revenues in peace? But you wait, perhaps, 
till he declare war against you. He will never do so: no, though he 
were at your gates. He will still be assuring you that he is not at 
war. Such were his professions to the people of Oreum, when his 
forces were in the heart of their country; such his professions to 
those of Pherae, until the moment he attacked their walls: and thus 
he amused the Olynthians till he came within a few miles of them, 
and then he sent them a message, that either they must quit 
their city, or he his kingdom. He would indeed be the absur- 
dest of mankind, if, while you suffer his outrages to pass unnoticed, 
and are wholly engaged in accusing and prosecuting one another, 
he should, by declaring war, put an end to your private contests, 
warn you to direct all your zeal against him, and deprive his pen¬ 
sioners of their most specious pretence for suspending your resolu¬ 
tions, that of his not being at war with the state. I, for my part, 
hold and declare, that by his attack of the Megaraeans, by his 
attempts upon the liberty of Euboea, by his late incursions into 
Thrace, by his practices in Peloponnesus, Philip has violated the 
treaty; he is in a state of hostility with you; unless you shall affirm, 
that he who prepares to besiege a city, is still at peace, until the 
walls be actually invested. The man whose designs, whose whole 
conduct, tends to reduce me to subjection, that man is at war with 
me, though not a blow hath yet been given, nor a sword drawn. 

‘ All Greece, all the barbarian world, is too narrow for this man’s 


29 ti EXTRACTS FROM [lect. xxvii* 

ambition. And though we Greeks see and hear all this, we send 
no embassies to each other; we express no resentment; but into 
such wretchedness are we sunk, that even to this day, we neglect 
what our interest and duty demand. Without engaging in associa¬ 
tions, or forming confederacies, we look with unconcern upon Phi¬ 
lip’s growing power ; each fondly imagining, that the time in which 
another is destroyed, is so much time gained on him; although no 
man can be ignorant, that, like the regular periodic return of a fever, 
he is coming upon those who think themselves the most remote 
from danger. And what is the cause of our present passive disposi¬ 
tion? For some cause sure there must be, why the Greeks, who 
have been so zealous heretofore in defence of liberty, are now so 
prone to slavery. The cause, Athenians ! is, that a principle, which 
was formerly fixed in the minds of all, now exists no more; a prin¬ 
ciple which conquered the opulence of Persia; maintained the 
freedom of Greece, and triumphed over the powers of sea and 
land. That principle was, an unanimous abhorrence of all those 
w’ho accepted bribes from princes, that were enemies to the liber¬ 
ties of Greece. To be convicted of bribery, was then a crime 
altogether unpardonable. Neither orators, nor generals, would 
then sell for gold, the favourable conjunctures which fortune put 
into their hands. No gold could impair our firm concord at home, 
our hatred and defiance of tyrants and barbarians. But now all 
things are exposed to sale, as in a public market. Corruption has 
introduced such manners, as have proved the bane and destruction 
of our country. Is a man known to have received foreign money ? 
People envy him. Does he own it? They laugh. Is he convicted 
in form? They forgive him: so universally has this contagion dif¬ 
fused itself among us. 

‘ If there be any who, though not carried away by bribes, yet are 
struck with terror, as if Philip was something more than human, they 
may see, upon a little consideration, that he hath exhausted all those 
artifices to which he owes his present elevation ; and that his affairs 
are now ready to decline. For I myself, Athenians! should think 
Philip really to be dreaded, if I saw him raised by honourable means. 
When forces join in harmony and affection, and one common interest 
unites confederating powers, then they share the toils with alacrity, 
and endure distresses with perseverance. But when extravagant 
ambition and lawless power, as in the case of Philip, have aggrandiz¬ 
ed a single person, the first pretence, the slightest accident, over¬ 
throws him, and dashes his greatness to the ground. For, it is not 
possible, Athenians! it is not possible, to found a lasting power up¬ 
on injustice, perjury, and treachery. These may perhaps succeed 
for once, and borrow for a while, from hope, a gay and a flourishing 
appearance. But time betrays their weakness, and they fall of them¬ 
selves to ruin. For, as in structures of every kind, the lower parts 
should have the firmest stability, so the grounds and principles of 
great enterprises should be justice and truth. But this solid founda¬ 
tion is wanting to all the enterprises of Philip. 

‘ Hence among his confederates, there are many who hate, who 


X.ECT. XXVII.] 


DEMOSTHENES. 


291 


distrust, who envy him. If you will exert yourselves as your ho¬ 
nour and your interest require, you will not only discover the weak¬ 
ness and insincerity of his confederates, but the ruinous condition 
also of his own kingdom. For you are not to imagine, that the 
inclinations of his subjects are the same with those of their prince. 
He thirsts for glory; but they have no part in tips ambition. Ha¬ 
rassed by those various excursions he is ever making, they groan 
under perpetual calamity; torn from their business and their fami¬ 
lies ; and beholding commerce excluded from their coasts. All those 
glaring exploits, which have given him his apparent greatness, have 
wasted his natural strength, his own kingdom, and rendered it much 
weaker than it originally was. Besides, his profligacy and baseness, 
and those troops of buffoons, arid dissolute persons, whom he ca¬ 
resses and constantly keeps about him, are, to men of just discern¬ 
ment, great indications of the weakness of his mind. At present,his 
successes cast a shade over these things; but let his arms meet with 
the least disgrace, his feebleness will appear, and his character be 
exposed. For, as in our bodies, while a man is in apparent health, 
the effect of some inward debility, which has been growing upon him, 
may, for a time, be concealed ; but as soon as it comes the length of 
disease, all his secret infirmities show themselves, in whatever part 
of his frame the disorder is lodged: so, in states and monarchies, 
while they carry on a war abroad, many defects escape the general 
eye; but, as soon as war reaches their own territory, their infirmities 
come forth to general observation. 

‘Fortune has great influence in all human affairs; but I, for my 
part, should prefer the fortune of Athens, with the least degree of vi¬ 
gour in asserting your cause, to this man’s fortune. For we have 
many better reasons to depend upon the favour of Heaven than this 
man. But, indeed, he who will not exert his own strength, hath no 
title to depend either on his friends, or on the gods. Is it at all sur¬ 
prising that he, who is himself ever amidst the labours and dangers 
of the field; who is every where ; whom no opportunity escapes; 
to whom no season is unfavourable; should be superior to you, who 
are wholly engaged in contriving delays,and framing decrees, and 
inquiring after news. The contrary would be much moye surprising 3 
if we, who have never hitherto acted as became a state engaged in 
war, should conquer one who acts, in every instance, with indefati¬ 
gable vigilance. It is this, Athenians! it is this which gives him all 
his advantage against you. Philip, constantly surrounded by his 
troops, and perpetually engaged in projecting his designs, can, in a 
moment, strike the blow where he pleases. But we, when any acci¬ 
dent alarms us, first appoint our Trierarchs; then we allow them the 
exchange by substitution; then the supplies are considered; next, 
we resolve to man our fleet with strangers and foreigners; then find 
it necessary to supply their place ourselves. In the midst of these 
delays, what we are failing to defend, the enemy is already master 
of; for the time of action is spent by us in preparing; and the issues 
of war will not wait for our slow and irresolute measures 
2 U 38 


298 


DEMOSTHENES. 


[lect. xxvn 


‘ Consider, then, your present situation, and make such provision, 
as the urgent danger requires. Talk not of your ten thousands, or 
your twenty thousand foreigners ; of those armies which appear so 
magnificent on paper only ; great and terrible in your decrees, in 
execution weak and contemptible. But let your army be made up 
chiefly of the native forces of the state ; let it be an Athenian strength 
to which you are to trust; and whomsoever you appoint as general, 
let them be entirely under his guidance and authority. Forever 
since our armies have been formed of foreigners alone, their victories 
have been gained over our allies and confederates only, while our 
enemies have risen to an extravagant power.’ 

The orator goes on to point out the number of forces which should 
be raised ; the places of their destination ; the season of the year 
in which they should set out; and then proposes, in form, his 
motion, as we would call it, or his decree, for the necessary supply 
of money, and for ascertaining the funds from which it should be 
raised. Having finished all that relates to the business under de¬ 
liberation, he concludes these orations on public affairs, commonly 
with no longer peroration than the following, which terminates the 
first Philippic ; ‘ I, for my part, have never, upon any occasion, chosen 
to court your favour by speaking any thing but what I was convinced 
would serve you. And on this occasion, you have heard my senti¬ 
ments freely declared, without art, and without reserve. I should 
have been pleased, indeed, that, as it is for your advantage to have 
your true interest laid before you, so I might have been assured, 
that he who layeth it before you would share the advantage. But 
uncertain as I know the consequence to be with respect to myself, 
I yet determined to speak, because I was convinced that these 
measures, if pursued, must prove beneficial to the public. And, of 
all those opinions which shall be offered to your acceptance, may the 
gods determine that to be chosen which will best advance the gene¬ 
ral welfare!’ 

These extracts may serve to give some imperfect idea of the man¬ 
ner of Demosthenes. For a juster and more complete one, recourse 
must be had to the excellent original. 


QUESTIONS, 


After the preliminary views which 
have been given of the nature of elo¬ 
quence in general, and of the state in 
which it has subsisted in different ages 
and countries, upon what are we now 
to enter? Into what three kinds did 
the ancients divide all orations; and 
what was the scope of each ? What 
were the chief subjects of demonstra¬ 
tive eloquence ? In what was the deli¬ 
berative employed; and of the judicial, 


what is observed? Of this division, 
what is remarked ? What division will 
suit our purpose better, and be found 
more useful ? How does this division 
coincide with the ancient one; but. 
with what exception ? What belongs 
to all three ? But before proceeding to 
them, what does our author intend to 
show; and why? How is this illus¬ 
trated? What shall our author lay 
aside; and with what will he begin? 





LECT. XXVII.] 


398 a 


QUESTIONS, 


Where is the most august theatre of 
this kind of eloquence to be found? 
Where, also, may it display itself; and 
where may it take place ? What is its 
object; and what must there always 
be ? In all attempts to persuade men, 
upon what principle must we proceed ? 
What is a most erroneous opinion ; and 
what remark follows? Why will the 
show of eloquence which they make, 
please only the trifling and superficial ? 
Of whatever rank the hearer may be, 
what is the speaker never to presume ? 
Why is it a dangerous experiment? 
How is this remark illustrated ? When, 
particularly, ought public speakers to 
be careful not to trifle with their hear¬ 
ers? What should ever be kept in 
view? How is this illustrated; and 
hence, what follows ? In preference to 
what, should public speaking set such a 
pattern as this before them ? In address¬ 
ing a popular assembly, what should be 
their first study ? What will be the ef¬ 
fect of this; and what will follow? 
What says Quintilian? What is the 
next requisite, in order to be a persua¬ 
sive speaker in a popular assembly ? 
What should we never espouse; and 
why ? What only carries conviction ? 
In a foimer lecture, what was obser¬ 
ved ? Of this, what is here observed ; 
and what follows? What do young 
people consider useful ? But of what is 
our author afraid'? Under what circum¬ 
stances only should they allow them¬ 
selves such a liberty ? Why is it not, 
even in such meetings, recommended 
as the most useful exercise ? By pur¬ 
suing this course, what habit will they 
acquire ? Where is it particularly dan¬ 
gerous for young practitioners to make 
use of this sort of play of speech; and 
why? What do debates in popular 
courts seldom allow the speaker ? To 
what must the arguments be suited; 
and what follows? Against what is 
there a general prejudice; and when 
only have they any propriety ? As the 
debate advances, why are they un¬ 
suitable? Against what does this not 
conclude; and of the neglect of it, what 
is observed ? What kind of premedita¬ 
tion is most advantageous ? With re¬ 
gard to the matter, and with regard to 
the words and expression, what is ob¬ 
served ? Until what period may it be 
proper for a young person to commit to 
memory the whole of what he has to 


say ? But after some performances of 
this kind shall have given him bold¬ 
ness, what will he find to be a better 
method? Of what advantage will these 
short notes be ? To what does this lead 
our author in the next place to ob¬ 
serve? By this, what does he not 
mean? But, though the method be not 
laid down in form, yet what follows ? 
What will every one who speaks find of* 
great advantage ? What will be the 
effect of this ? With respect to hearers, 
what is observed; and what is its ef 1 
fect ? What is, therefore, observed; 
and why ? Of what is our author here¬ 
after to treat? What shall we now 
consider ; and of them, what is obser¬ 
ved? Of the effect of the aspect of a 
large assembly, what is observed; and 
why ? What have then their proper 
place; and what form the peculiar 
characteristics of popular eloquence, in 
its highest degree of perfection? 

Of the liberty which we are now 
giving, of the strong and passionate 
manner to this kind of oratory, what is 
observed ? What is the first restraint; 
and why ? For what is there most fre¬ 
quent occasion; and what follows? 
What is the second restraint ? What is 
always its effect; and why ? How is 
this illustrated ? What is here the great 
rule ? In what manner may one be a 
speaker both of reputation and influ¬ 
ence ? But to attain the pathetic and 
sublime in oratory, what is required ? 
What is the third restraint ? What re¬ 
mark follows ? What must he not do; 
how must he begin; and why ? Let a 
speaker have ever so good reason to be 
animated, and fired by his subject, what 
is always expected of him ? What has 
a wonderful effect both to please and 
to persuade ? Of it, what is remarked? 
What is the fourth restraint ? Why is 
this direction given? Of this, what is 
observed ? For what is it no reason ? 
But for what is it a reason ? What is 
done by Demosthenes, in order to justi¬ 
fy the unsuccessful action of Chero- 
neea ? What is also done by Cicero ; 
and of both passages, what is observed? 
What remark follows? What is the 
fifth .and last restraint? What cannot 
atone for neglect of these ? How is this 
remark illustrated ? What says Quin¬ 
tilian ? No one should ever rise to speak 
in public, without first doing what? 
Where, among the ancients, shall We 



298 b 


QUESTIONS. 


[LECT. XXVIII, 


find this particularly insisted on ? Re¬ 
cite the admonition contained in Cicero’s 
oration, ad Brutum * What should the 
current style be ? 01* quaint and artifi¬ 
cial expressions, what is here observed? 
What should be studied ; and what, 
when properly introduced, produces a 
happy effect? Under what circum¬ 
stances may some inaccuracies be over¬ 
looked ? When do they escape ? With 
regard to the degree of conciseness or 
diffuseness, what is observed? What 
manner has commonly been recom¬ 
mended ? What, however, is our au¬ 
thor inclined to think ? Of what is there 
no doubt ? To do what must care be 
taken; but of this care, what is obser¬ 
ved ? Of a loose and verbose manner, 
what is remarked ? What had we bet¬ 
ter do ? Of what is our author after¬ 
wards to treat ? At present, what is it 
sufficient to observe? What manner 
should always be shunned ? But what 
may be assumed even by a modest 
man ? What does a feeble and hesi¬ 
tating manner bespeak; and what is 
said of it ? What is the end of popular 
speaking; and on what must it be 
founded ? If we would be speakers of 
business, and not mere declaimers, what 
must be the basis ? On what should we 
be engaged in earnest; and what 
should we utter ? Of what should the 
premeditation be ? How is this illus¬ 
trated ? With what remark is this head 
concluded ? Why are the following ex¬ 


tracts from Demosthenes inserted ? Un¬ 
der the great disadvantage of an Eng¬ 
lish translation, what will they exhibit? 
Whence are the following; and of 
them, what is observed ? How are the 
extracts selected; and why? What is 
the subject of the orations ? What dis¬ 
position did the Athenians manifest? 
In this critical conjuncture, who arose ; 
and in what manner does he begin his 
first Philippic ? (The following extracts 
should be carefully committed.) 


ANALYSIS. 

The different kinds of public speaking. 

1. The eloquence of popular assem¬ 

blies. 

a. Its foundation. 

B. The speaker himself should be 
persuaded of what he recom¬ 
mends to others. 

c. Preparative directions. 

d. The style of popular eloquence. 

a. The warmth should be suited 
to the subject. 

b. It should never be counter¬ 
feited. 

c. It should not be carried too far. 

d. The public ear should be re¬ 
garded. 

e. The decorums of time, place, 
&c. should be attended to. 

2. Extracts from Demosthenes’ ora 
tions. 



LECTURE XXVIII* 


ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR.—ANALYSIS OF CICE¬ 
RO’S ORATION.FOR CLUENTIUS. 

1 treated in the last lecture of what is peculiar to the eloquence 
of popular assemblies. Much of what was said on that head is ap¬ 
plicable to the eloquence of the bar, the next great scene of public 
speaking, to which I now proceed, and my observations upon which 
will therefore be the shorter. All, however, that was said in the for¬ 
mer lecture, must not be applied to it; and it is of importance that 
I begin with showing where the distinction lies. 







lect. xxviii.] ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. 


299 

In the first place, the ends of speaking at the bar, and in popular 
assemblies, are commonly different. In popular assemblies, the 
great object is persuasion; the orator aims at determining the hear¬ 
ers to some choice or conduct, as good, fit, or useful. For accom¬ 
plishing this end, it is incumbent on him to apply himself to all the 
principles of action in our nature; to the passions and to the heart, 
as well as to the understanding. But, at the bar, conviction is the 
great object. There, it is not the speaker’s business to persuade the 
judges to what is good or useful, but to show them what is just and 
true ; and of course, it is chiefly, or solely, to the understanding that 
his eloquence is addressed. This is a characteristical difference 
which ought ever to be kept in view. 

In the next place, speakers at the bar address themselves to one 
or to a few judges, and these, too, persons generally of age, gravity, 
and authority of character. There they have not those advantages 
which a mixed and numerous assembly affords for employing all the 
arts of speech, even supposing their subject to admit them. Pas¬ 
sion does not rise so easily; the speaker is heard more coolly; he is 
watched over more severely; and would expose himself to ridicule, 
by attempting that high vehement tone, which is only proper in 
speaking to a multitude. 

In the last place, the nature and management of the subjects 
which belong to the bar, require a very different species of oratory 
from that of popular assemblies. In the latter, the speaker has a 
much wider range. He is seldom confined to any precise rule; 
he can fetch his topics from a great variety of quarters; and employ 
every illustration which his fancy or imagination suggests. But, at 
the bar, the field of speaking is limited to precise law and statute. 
Imagination is not allowed to take its scope. The advocate has al¬ 
ways lying before him the line, the square, and the compass. These, 
it is his principal business to be continually applying to the subjects 
under debate. 

For these reasons, it is clear, that the eloquence of the bar is of 
a much more limited, more sober and chastened kind, than that of 
popular assemblies; and for similar reasons, we must beware of 
considering even the judicial orations of Cicero or Demosthenes, 
as exact models of the manner of speaking which is adapted to the 
present state of the bar. It is necessary to warn young lawyers of 
this; because, though these were pleadings spoken in civil or criminal 
causes, yet, in fact, the nature of the bar anciently, both in Greece 
and Rome, allowed a much nearer approach to popular eloquence, 
than what it now does. This was owing chiefly to two causes : 

First, Because in the ancient judicial orations, strict law was 
much less an object of attention than it is become among us. In 
the days of Demosthenes and Cicero, the municipal statutes were 
few, simple, and general; and the decision of causes was trusted, 
in a great measure, to the equity and common sense of the judges. 
Eloquence, much more than jurisprudence, was the study of those 
who were to plead causes. Cicero somewhere says, that three 


300 


ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. [lect. xxviii. 

months study was sufficient to make any man a complete civilian: 
nay, it was thought that one might be a good pleader at the bar, 
who had never studied law at all. For there were among the Ro¬ 
mans a set of men called pragmalici , whose office it was to give 
the orator all the law knowledge which the cause he was to plead 
required, and which he put into that popular form, and dressed up 
with those colours of eloquence, that were best fitted for influencing 
the judges before whom he spoke. 

We may observe next, that the civil and criminal judges, both in 
Greece and Rome, were commonly much more numerous than 
they are with us, and formed a sort of popular assembly. The 
renowned tribunal of the Areopagus at Athens consisted of fifty 
judges at the least.* Some make it to consist of a great many more. 
When Socrates was condemned, by what court it is uncertain, 
we are informed that no fewer than 280 voted against him. In 
Rome, the Praetor, who was the proper judge both in civil and 
criminal causes, named, for every cause of moment, the Judices 
Selecti , as they were called, who were always numerous, and had 
the office and power of both judge and jury. In the famous cause 
of Milo, Cicero spoke to fifty-one Judices Selecti, and so had the 
advantage of addressing his whole pleading, not to one or a few 
learned judges of the point of law, as is the case with us, but to 
an assembly of Roman citizens. Hence all those arts of popular 
eloquence, which we find the Roman orator so frequently employ- 
ing, and probably with much success. Hence tears and commis¬ 
eration are so often made use of as the instruments of gaining a 
cause. Hence certain practices, which would be reckoned thea¬ 
trical among us, were common at the Roman bar; such as introduc¬ 
ing not only the accused person dressed in deep mourning, but 
presenting to the judges his family, and his young children, endea¬ 
vouring to move them by their cries and tears. 

For these reasons, on account of the wide difference between 
the ancient and modern state of the bar, to which we may add also 
the difference in the turn of ancient and modern eloquence, which 
I formerly took notice of, too strict an imitation of Cicero’s man¬ 
ner of pleading would now be extremely injudicious. To great 
advantage he may still be studied by every speaker at the bar. In 
the address with which he opens his subject, and the insinuation he 
employs for gaining the favour of the judges; in the distinct ar¬ 
rangement of his facts; in the gracefulness of his narration; in the 
conduct and exposition of his arguments, he may and he ought to 
be imitated. A higher pattern cannot be set before us; but one who 
should imitate him also in his exaggeration and amplifications, in bis 
diffuse and pompous declamation, and in his attempts to raise pas¬ 
sion, would now make himself almost as ridiculous at the bar, as if 
he should appear there in the Toga of a Roman lawyer. 

Before I descend to more particular directions concerning the 
eloquence of the bar, I must be allowed to take notice, that the 


* Vide Potter. Antiq. vol. i. p. 102. 



lect. xxviii.] ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. 


301 


foundation of a lawyer’s reputation and success, must always be 
laid in a profound knowledge of his own profession. Nothing is of 
suchc consequence to him, or deserves more his deep and serious 
study. For whatever his abilities as a speaker may be, if his know¬ 
ledge of the law be reckoned superficial, few will choose to commit 
their cause to him. Besides previous study, and a proper stock of 
knowledge attained, another thing, highly material to the success 
of every pleader, is, a diligent and painful attention to every cause 
with which he is entrusted, so as to be thoroughly master of all the 
facts and circumstances relating to it On this, the ancient rhetori¬ 
cians insist with great earnestness, and justly represent it as a neces¬ 
sary basis to all the eloquence that can be exerted in pleading. 
Cicero tells us (under the character of Antonius, in the second book 
DeOratore) thathe always conversed at full length with every client 
who came to consult him; that he took care there should be no 
witness to their conversation, in order that his client might explain 
himself more freely; that he was wont to start every objection, and 
to plead the cause of the adverse party with him, that he might 
come at the whole truth, and be fully prepared on every point of 
the business; and that, after the client had retired, he used to 
balance all the facts with himself, under three different characters, 
his own, that of the judge, and that of the advocate on the oppo¬ 
site side. He censures very severely those of the profession who 
decline taking so much trouble; taxing them not only with shame¬ 
ful negligence, but with dishonesty and breach of trust.* To the 
same purpose Quintilian, in the eighth chapter of his last book, 
delivers a great many excellent rules concerning all the methods 
which a lawyer should employ for attaining the most thorough 
knowledge of the cause he is to plead; again and again recommend¬ 
ing patience and attention in conversation with clients, and ob¬ 
serving very sensibly, ‘ Non tarn obest audire supervacua, quam 
ignorare necessaria. Frequenter enim et vulnus, et remedium, in 
iis orator inveniet quae litigatorie in neutram partem, habere mo¬ 
mentum videbantur.’t 

Supposing an advocate to be thus prepared, with all the know¬ 
ledge which the study of the law in general, and of that cause 
which he is to plead in particular, can furnish him, I must next ob- 


* < Equidem soleo dare operam, ut de sua quisque re me ipse doceat; et ne- 
quis alius adsit, quo liberius loquatur; et agere adversarii causam, ut ille agat 
suam; et quicquid de sua re cogitaret, in medium proferat. ltaque cdmville de- 
cessit, ties personas unus sustineo, summa animi equitate; raeam, adversarii, 
judices.—Nonnulli dum operam suam multam existimari volunt, ut toto foro vol- 
itare, et accusa ad causam ire videantur, causas dicunt incognitas. In quo est ilia 
qnidem magna offensio, vel negligentiae susceptis rebus, vel perfidiae receptis ; sed 
etiam ilia, major opinione, quod nemo potest de ea re quam non novit, non turpissime 

dicere.’ , _ « . . 

f < To listen to something that is superfluous can do no hurt; whereas to be 
io-norant of something that is material, may be highly prejudicial. The advocate 
will frequently discover the weak side of a cause, and learn at the same time, what is 
the proper defence, from circumstances which, to the party himself, appeared to be of 
little or no moment.’ 



302 


ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. [lect. xxviij. 


serve, that eloquence in pleading is of the highest moment for 
giving support to a cause. It were altogether wrong to infer, that 
because the ancient popular and vehement manner is now in a great 
measure superseded, there is therefore no room for eloquence 
at the bar, and that the study of it is become superfluous. Though 
the manner of speaking be changed, yet still there is a right and 
proper manner, which deserves to be studied as much as ever. 
Perhaps there is no scene of public speaking where eloquence is 
more necessary. For, on other occasions, the subject on which 
men speak in public, is frequently sufficient, by itself, to interest 
the hearers. But the dryness and subtilty of the subjects ge¬ 
nerally agitated at the bar, require, more than any other, a certain 
kind of eloquence, in order to command attention ; in order to give 
proper weight to the arguments that are employed, and to prevent 
any thing which the pleader advances from passing unregarded. 
The effect of good speaking is always very great. There is as much 
difference in the impression made upon the hearers, by a cold, 
dry, and confused speaker, and that made by one who pleads the 
same cause with elegance, order, and strength, as there is between 
our conception of an object, when it is presented to us in a dim 
light, and when we behold it in a full and clear one. 

It is no small encouragement to eloquence at the bar, that of all 
the liberal professions, none gives fairer play to genius and abilities 
than that of the advocate. He is less exposed than some others to 
suffer by the arts of rivalry, by popular prejudices, or secret intrigues. 
He is sure of coming forward according to his merit; for he stands 
forth every day to view; he enters the list boldly with his competi¬ 
tors; every appearance which he makes is an appeal to the public, 
whose decision seldom fails of being just, because it is impartial. 
Interest and friends may set forward a young pleader with peculiar 
advantages beyond others, at the beginning ; but they can do no 
more than open the field to him. A reputation resting on these as¬ 
sistances will soon fall. Spectators remark, judges decide, parties 
watch ; and to him will the multitude of clients never fail to resort, 
who gives themost approved specimens of his knowledge, eloquence' 
and industry. 

It must belaid down for a first principle, that the eloquence suited 
to the bar, whether in speaking or in writing law papers, is of the 
calm and temperate kind, and connected with close reasoning. 
Sometimes a little play may be allowed to the imagination, in order 
to enliven a dry subject, and to give relief to the fatigue of atten¬ 
tion ; but this liberty must be taken with a sparing hand ; for a 
florid style, and a sparkling manner, never fail to make the speaker 
be heard with a jealous ear, by the judge. They detract from his 
weight, and always produce a suspicion of his failing in soundness 
and strength of argument. It is purity and neatness of expression 
which is chiefly to be studied ; a style perspicuous and proper, which 
shall not be needlessly overcharged with the pedantry of law terms 
and where, at the same time, no affectation shall appear of avoiding 
these, when they are suitable and necessary. 


2.ECT. xxviii.] ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. 


303 


Verbosity is a common fault, of which the gentlemen of this pro- 
iession are accused; and into which the habit of speaking and writing 
so hastily, and with so little preparation, as they are often obliged to 
do, almost unavoidably betrays them. It cannot, therefore, be too 
much recommended to those who are beginning to practise at the 
bar, that they should early study to guard against this, while as yet 
they have full leisure for preparation. Let them form themselves, 
especially in the papers which they write, to the habit of a strong 
and a correct style; which expresses the same thing much better 
in a few words, than is done by the accumulation of intricate and 
endless periods. If this habit be once acquired, it will become na¬ 
tural to them afterwards, when the multiplicity of business shall 
force them to compose in a more precipitant manner. Whereas, if 
the practice of a loose and negligent style has been suffered to be¬ 
come familiar, it will not be in their power, even upon occasions 
when they wish to make an unusual effort, to express themselves 
with energy and grace. 

Distinctness is a capital property in speaking at the bar. This 
should be shown chiefly in two things; first, in stating the question; 
in showing clearly what is the point in debate; what we admit; 
what we deny; and where the line of division begins between us, 
and the adverse party. Next, it should be shown in the order and 
arrangement of all the parts of the pleading. In every sort of ora¬ 
tion, a clear method is of the utmost consequence; but in those em¬ 
broiled and difficult cases which belong to the bar, it is almost all in 
all. Too much pains, therefore, cannot, be taken, in previously 
studying the plan and method. If there be indistinctness and dis¬ 
order there, we can have no success in convincing: we leave the 
whole cause in darkness. 

With respect to the conduct of narration and argumentation, I 
shall hereafter make several remarks, when I come to treat of the 
component parts of a regular oration. I shall at present only observe, 
that the narration of facts at the bar, should always be as concise as 
the nature of them will admit. Facts are always of the greatest 
consequence to be remembered during the course of the pleading; 
but, if the pleader be tedious in his manner of relating them, and 
needlessly circumstantial, he lays too great a load upon the memo¬ 
ry. Whereas, by cutting off all superfluous circumstances in his re¬ 
cital, he adds strength to the material facts; he both gives a clearer 
view of what he relates, and makes the impression of it more last¬ 
ing. In argumentation, again, I would incline to give scope to a 
more diffuse manner at the bar, than on some other occasions. For 
in popular assemblies, where the subject of debate is often a plain 
question, arguments, taken from known topics, gain strength by their 
conciseness. But the obscurity of law-points frequently requires 
the arguments to be spread out, and placed in different lights, in 
order to be fully apprehended. 

When the pleader comes to refute the arguments employed by his 
adversary, he should beon his guard not to do them injustice, by dis¬ 
guising, or placing them in a false light. The deceit is soon discov- 
2 X 


304 ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. [lect. xxvnr. 

ered; it will not fail of being exposed; and tends to impress the 
judge and the hearers with distrust of the speaker, as one who either 
vvants discernment to perceive, or wants fairness to admit, the 
strength of the reasoning on the other side. Whereas, when they 
see that he states, with accuracy and candour, the arguments which 
have been used against him, before he proceeds to combat them, a 
strong prejudice is created in his favour. They are naturally led to 
thmk, that he has a clear and full conception of all that can be said 
on both sides of the argument; that he has entire confidence in the 
goodness of his own cause; and does not attempt to support it by 
any artifice or concealment. The judge is thereby inclined to receive 
much more readily, the impressions which are given him by a 
speaker, who appears both so fair and so penetrating. There is no 
part of the discourse, in which the orator has greater opportunity of 
showing a masterly address, than when he sets himself to represent 
the reasonmgs of his antagonists, in order to refute them. 

y\ it may sometimes be of service at the bar, especially in a lively 
reply, by which we may throw ridicule on something that has been 
said on the other side. But, though the reputation of wit be daz¬ 
zling to a young pleader, I would never advise him to rest his 
strength upon this talent. It is not his business to make an audience 
augh, but to convince the judge; and seldom, or never, did any one 
rise to eminence in his profession, by being a witty lawyer. 

A proper degree of warmth in pleading a cause is always of use. 

1 houghm speaking to a multitude, greater vehemence be natural; 
yet,in addressing ourselves even to a single man, the warmth which 
arises from seriousness and earnestness, is one of the most powerful 
means of persuading him. An advocate personates his client; he 
las taken upon him the whole charge of his interests; he stands in 
his place It is improper, therefore, and has a bad effect upon the 
cause, if he appears indifferent and unmoved; and few clients will 
30 of trustl *?§ th eir interests in the hands of a cold speaker. 

At the same time, he must beware of prostituting his earnestness 
and sensibility so much as to enter with equal warmth into every 
cause that is committed to him, whether it can be supposed really 

H° lte f hlS T? ° r not There is a di S nit y of character, which 
is of the utmost importance for every one in this profession to sup¬ 
port. For it must never be forgotten, that there is no instrument 
o persuasion more powerful, than an opinion of probity and ho- 
nour in the person who undertakes to persuade.* It is scarcely 

Wth b i e K°' a 7 he /u er - t0 u separate alt0 S ether tl >e impression made 
by the character of him that speaks, from the things that he says 

However secretly and imperceptibly, it will be always lending its 
weight to one side or other; either detracting from, or adding to 
the authority and influence of his speech. This opinion of ho¬ 
nour and probity must therefore be carefully preserved, both by 
some degree of delicacy in t he choice of causes, and by the man- 

* ‘Hurimum ad omnia moment! est in hoc positum, si vir bonus creditor Sir eni m 
contingit, „« „„„ studinm advocati, videa.nr affere.. 8 ed pene tesUs fidemT' " 

QurNOT. 1 iv c. i 






lect. xxvin.] ORATION FOR CLUENTIUS. 


305 


ner of conducting them. And though, perhaps, the nature of the 
profession may render it extremely difficulty carry this delicacy to its 
utmost length, yet there are attentions to this point, which, as every 
good man for virtue’s sake, so every prudent man for reputation’s 
sake, will find to be necessary. He will always decline embarking 
in causes that are odious and manifestly unjust; and, when he sup¬ 
ports a doubtful cause, he will lay the chief stress upon such argu¬ 
ments as appear to his own judgment the most tenable; reserving 
his zeal and his indignation for cases where injustice and iniquity are 
flagrant. But of the personal qualities and virtues requisite in pub¬ 
lic speakers, I shall afterwards have occasion to discourse. 

These are the chief directions which have occurred to me con¬ 
cerning the peculiar strain of speaking at the bar. In order to illus¬ 
trate the subject farther, I shall give a short analysis of one of Cice¬ 
ro’s pleadings, or judicial orations. I have chosen that,/?ro Clu - 
entio. The celebrated one ,pro Milone, is more laboured and showy; 
but it is too declamatory. That, pro Cluentio , comes nearer the 
strain of a modern pleading; and though it has the disadvantage 
of being very long and complicated too in the subject, yet it is one 
cf the most chaste, correct, and forcible,of all Cicero’s judicial ora¬ 
tions, and well deserves attention for its conduct. 

A vitus Cluentius, a Roman knight of splendid family and fortunes, 
had accused his stepfather Oppianicus, of an attempt to poison him. 
He prevailed in the prosecution; Oppianicus was condemned and 
banished. But as rumours arose of the judges having been cor¬ 
rupted by money in this cause, these gave occasion to much popu¬ 
lar clamour, and had thrown a heavy odium on Cluentius. Eight 
years afterwards Oppianicus died. An accusation was brought 
against Cluentius of having poisoned him, together with a charge 
also of having bribed the judges in the former trial to condemn. 
In this action Cicero defends him. The accusers were Sassia, the 
mother of Cluentius, and widow of Oppianicus, and young Oppianicus, 
the son. Q. Naso, the Praetor, was judge, together with a consi¬ 
derable number of Judices Selecti. 

The introduction of the orationJs simple and proper, taken from 
no common-place topic, but from the nature of the cause. It be¬ 
gins with taking notice, that the whole oration of the accuser was di¬ 
vided into two parts.* These two parts were, the charge of having 
poisoned Oppianicus; on which the accuser, conscious of having no 
proof, did not lay the stress of his cause; but rested it chiefly on 
the other charge of formerly corrupting the judges, which was capi¬ 
tal in certain cases, by the Roman law. Cicero proposes to follow 
him in this method, and to apply himself chiefly to the vindication 
of his client from the latter charge. He makes several proper ob- 

* 1 Animadvertite, judices, omnem accusatoris orationem in duas divisam esse partes; 
quarum altera mihi niti et magnopere confidere videbatur, invidii jam inveterate judi- 
cii Juniani, altera tantum modo consuetudinis cause, timide et diffidenter attingere ra- 
tionem veneficii criminum ; qu& de re lege est haec questio constitute. Itaque mihi 
certumest hanc eandem distributioneminvidiae et criminum sic in defensione servare,ut 
rnnnes intelligant. nihil me nec subterfugere voluisse reticendo, nec obscurare dicendo.' 

3f) 



30(5 


ANALYSIS OF CICERO'S 


[lect. xxvm. 


servations on the danger of judges suffering themselves to be sway¬ 
ed by a popular cry, which often is raised by faction, and directed 
against the innocent. He acknowledges, that Cluentius had suffer¬ 
ed much and long by reproach, on account of what had passed at 
the former trial; but begs only a patient and attentive hearing, and 
assures the judges, that he will state every thing relating to that mat¬ 
ter so lairly and so clearly, as shall give them entire satisfaction. A 
gr^t appearance of candour reigns throughout this introduction. 

1 he crimes with which Cluentius was charged, were heinous. 
A mother accusing her son, and accusing him of such actions, as 
having first bribed judges to condemn her husband, and having 
aiterwards poisoned him, were circumstances that naturally raised 
strong prejudices against Cicero's client. The first step, therefore, 
necessary for the orator, was to remove these prejudices; by shout¬ 
ing what sort of persons Cluentius's mother, and her husband Oppi¬ 
anicus, were; and thereby turning the edge of public indignation 
against them. The nature of the cause rendered this plan Altoge¬ 
ther proper, and in similar situations it is fit to be imitated. He exe¬ 
cutes his plan with much eloquence and force; and in doing it, lays 
open such a scene of infiimy and complicated guilt, as gives a 
shocking picture of the manners of that age; and such as would 
seem incredible, did not Cicero refer to the proof that was taken in 
the former trial, of the facts which he alleges. 

Sassia, the mother, appears to have been altogether of an aban- 
doned character. Soon after the death of her first husband, the fa- 
ther of Cluentms, she fell in love with Aurius Melinus, a young man 
o illustrious birth and great fortune, who was married to her own 
daughter. She prevailed with him to divorce her daughter, and 
then she married him herself." This Melinus being afterwards, by 
the means of Oppianicus, involved in Sylla’s proscription, and put 
to death; and Sassia being left, for the second time, a widow, and 
m a very opulent situation, Oppianicus himself made his addresses 
to her. She, not startled at the imprudence of the proposal, nor at 
the thoughts of marrying one, whose hands had been imbrued in her 
former husband's blood, objected only, as Cicero says, to Oppiani¬ 
cus having two sons by his present wife. Oppianicus removed the 
objection by having his sons privately despatched; and then, divorc¬ 
ing his wife, the infamous match was concluded between him and 
Cassia. 1 hese flagrant deeds are painted, as we may well believe 
with the highest colours of Cicero's eloquence, which here has a ve- 
iy proper field. Cluentius, as a man of honour, could no longer 


* ‘Lectum ilium genialem quern biennio ante fili® SU{e nubenti straverat in 
eadem domo s.bi ornan elt sterni, expulsd atque exturbatft filia, jubet. NubitAe 
nei o socrus, nullis auspicibus, funestis ommibus omnium. O mulieris scelus incre 
dibile, & prater hanc unam, in omni vita inauditum ! O audaciam sino-«larem * 
non timuisse, si minus vim deorum, hominumque famam, at illam ipsanfnoctem 
facesque illas nuptiales P non limen cubiculi? non cubile filiee ? non parietes de ? 
nique ipsos superiorum testes nuptiarum ? perfregit ac prostravit omnia cupiditate 
fe hirore . vicit pudorem libido ; tnnorem audacifi; rationem amentia.’ The warmth 

by^te s ™bier? qUenCe ’ PMSa S e exemplifies, is here fully i„ s ,ifi M 







x.ect. xxviii.] ORATION FOR CLUENTIUS. 


307 


live on any tolerable terms with a woman, a mother only in the 
name, who had loaded herself and all her family with so much dis¬ 
honour; and hence the feud which had ever since subsisted be¬ 
tween them, and had involved her unfortunate son in so much trou¬ 
ble and persecution. As for Oppianicus, Cicero gives a short histo¬ 
ry of his life, and a full detail of his crimes; and by what he relates, 
Oppianicus appears to have been a man daring, fierce, and cruel, in¬ 
satiable in avarice and ambition; trained and hardened in all the 
crimes which those turbulent times of Marius and Sylla’s proscrip¬ 
tions produced; 4 Such a man/ says our orator, 4 as, in place of be¬ 
ing surprised that he was condemned, you ought rather to wonder 
that he had escaped so long.’ 

And now, having prepared the way by all this narration, which 
is clear and elegant, he enters on the history of that famous trial,in 
which his client was charged with corrupting the judges. Both 
Cluentius and Oppianicus were of the city of Larinum. In a public 
contest about the rights of the freemen of that city, they had taken 
opposite sides, which embittered the misunderstanding already sub¬ 
sisting between them. Sassia, now the wife of Oppianicus, pushed 
him on to the destruction of her son, whom she had long hated, as 
one who was conscious of her crimes; and,as Cluentius was known 
to have, made no will, they expected, upon his death, to succeed to 
his fortune. The plan was formed, therefore, to despatch him by 
poison ; which, considering their former condu'ct, is no incredible 
part of the story. Cluentius was at that time indisposed: the ser¬ 
vant of his physician was to be bribed to give him poison, and one 
Fabricius, an intimate friend of Oppianicus, was employed in the 
negotiation. The servant having made the discovery, Cluentius 
first prosecuted Scamander, a freedman of Fabricius, in whose cus¬ 
tody the poison was found; and afterwards Fabricius, for this at¬ 
tempt upon his life. He prevailed in both actions: and both these 
persons were condemned by the voices, almost unanimous, of the 
judges. 

Of both these Prejudicial as our author calls them, or previous 
trials, he gives a very particular account: and rests upon them a great 
part of his argument, as in neither of them, there was the least charge 
or suspicion of any attempt to corrupt the judges. But in both 
these trials, Oppianicus was pointed at plainly; in both, Scamander 
and Fabricius, were prosecuted as only the instruments and ministers 
of his cruel designs. As a natural consequence, therefore, Cluen¬ 
tius immediately afterwards raised a third prosecution against Oppi¬ 
anicus himself, the contriver and author of the whole. It was in this 
prosecution, that money was said to have been given to the judges; 
all Rome was filled with the report of it, and the alarm loudly raised, 
that no man’s life or liberty was safe, if such dangerous practices 
were not checked. By the following arguments, Cicero defends his 
client against this heavy charge of the Crimen corrupti Judicii. 

He reasons first, that there was not the least reason to suspect it; 
seeing the condemnation of Oppianicus was a direct and necessary 
consequence of the judgments given against Scamander and Frabri- 


308 ANALYSIS OF CICERO’S [lect. xxviii 


eius, in the two former trials; trials that were fair and uncorrupted, to 
the satisfaction of the whole world. Yet by these, the road was laid 
clearly open to the detection of Oppianicus’s guilt. His instruments 
and ministers being once condemned, and by the very same judges 
too, nothing could be more absurd than to raise a cry about an inno¬ 
cent person being circumvented by bribery, when it was evident, on 
the contrary, that a guilty person was now brought into judgment, 
under such circumstances, that unless the judges were altogether 
inconsistent with themselves, it was impossible for him to be ac¬ 
quitted. 

He reasons next, that, if in this trial there were any corruption of 
the judges by money, it was infinitely more probable, that corrup¬ 
tion should have proceeded from Oppianicus than from Cluentius. 
.h or setting aside the difference of character between the two men 
the one fair,the other flagitious; what motive had Cluentius to try 
so odious and dangerous an experiment, as that of bribing judges'> 
Was it not much more likely that he should have had recourse to 
this last remedy, who saw and knew himself, and his cause, to be in 
the utmost danger, than the other, who had a cause clear in itself, 
and of the issue of which, in consequence of the two previous sen 
fences given by the same judges, he had full reason to be confident > 
Was it not much more likely that he should bribe, who had every 
thmgto fear; whose life, and liberty, and fortune, were at stake- 
than he who had already prevailed in a material part of his charge, 
and who had no further interest in the issue of the prosecution than 
as justice was concerned? 


In the third place, he asserts it as a certain fact, that Oppianicus 
did attempt to bribe the judges; that the corruption in this trial, so 
much complained of, was employed, not by Cluentius, but against 
him. He calls on Titus Attius, the orator on the opposite side; he 
challenges him to deny, if he can, or if he dare, that Stalenus, one 
of the thirty-two Judices Selecti, did receive money from Oppiani¬ 
cus, he names the sum that was given; he names the persons that 
were present, when, after the trial was over, Stalenus was obliged to 
refund the bribe. This is a strong fact, and would seem quite de¬ 
cisive. Hut, unluckily, a very cross circumstance occurs here. For 
this very Stalenus gave his voice to condemn Oppianicus. For this 
strange incident, Cicero accounts in the following manner: Stale- 
nus, says he, known to be a worthless man, and accustomed before 
to the like practices, entered into a treaty with Oppianicus to bring 
him off, and demanded for that purpose a certain sum, which he 
undertook to distribute among a competent number of the other 
.judges. When he was once in possession of the money: when he 
found a greater treasure than ever he had been master of. deposit¬ 
ed in his empty and wretched habitation, he became very unwilling 
to part with any of it to his colleagues; and bethought himself of 

“ ea " S V V t h i d \. he C ° j r contrive t0 kee P it all to himself, 
he scheme which he devised for this purpose, was, to promote the 

condemned 0 "’ £ J the ac q ui «al oY Op’pianhms f as, from a 

-ondemned person, he did not apprehend much danger of being 


lect. xxviii.] ORATION FOR CLUENTIUS. 


300 


called to account, or being obliged to make restitution. In stead, 
therefore, of endeavouring to gain any of his colleagues, he irritat¬ 
ed such as he had influence with against Oppianicus, by first promis¬ 
ing them money in his name, and afterwards telling them that Op¬ 
pianicus had cheated him.* When sentence was to be pronounced, 
he had taken measures for being absent himself: but being brought 
by Oppianicus’s lawyers from another court, and obliged to give 
his voice, he found it necessary to lead the way in condemning the 
man whose money he had taken, without fulfilling the bargain 
which he had made with him. 

By these plausible facts and reasonings, the character of Cluen- 
tius seems in a great measure cleared ; and, what Cicero chiefly in¬ 
tended, the odium thrown upon the adverse party. But a difficult 
part of the orator’s business still remained. There were several 
subsequent decisions of the praetor, the censors, and the senate, 
against the judges in this cause ; which all proceeded, or seemed 
to proceed, upon this ground of bribery and corruption: for it is 
plain the suspicion prevailed, that if Oppianicus had given money 
to Stalenus, Cluentius had out-bribed him. To all these decisions, 
however, Cicero replies with much distinctness and subtilty of ar¬ 
gument ; though it might be tedious to follow him through all his 
reasonings on these heads. He shows, that the facts were, at that 
time, very indistinctly known ; that the decisions appealed to were 
hastily given ; that not one of them concluded directly against his 
client; and that such as they were, they were entirely brought about 
by the inflammatory and factious harangues of Quinctius, the tri¬ 
bune of the people, who had been the agent and advocate of Oppi¬ 
anicus ; and who, enraged at the defeat he had sustained, had em¬ 
ployed all his tribunitial influence to raise a storm against the judges 
who condemned his client. 

At length, Cicero comes to reason concerning the point of law. 
The Crimen Corrupti Judicii , or the bribing of judges, was capital. 
In the famous Lex Cornelia de Sicariis , was contained this clause 
(which we find still extant, Pandect, lib. xlviii. tit. 10, § 1.) ‘ Qui 
judicem corruperit, vel corrumpendum curaverit, hac lege teneatur.’ 
This clause, however, we learn from Cicero, was restricted to ma¬ 
gistrates and senators ; and as Cluentius was only of the equestrian 
order, he was not, even supposing him guilty, within the law. Of 
this Cicero avails himself douhly; and as he shows here the most 
masterly address, I shall give a summary of his pleading on this 
part of the cause: ‘You,’ says he to the advocate for the prosecu¬ 
tor, ‘ you, T. Attius, I know, had every where given it out, that I 

* ‘ Cum esset egens, sumptuosus, audax, callidus, perfidiosus, et cum dorai suae, 
miserrimis in locis, et inanissimis, tantum nummorum positum viderit, ad omnem mali- 
tiam et fraudem versare mentem suam ccepit. Demne judicibus? mihi igitur, ipsi 
praeter periculum et infamiam quid quaeretur P Siquis eum forte casus ex periculo 
cripuerit, nonne redendum est? prsecipitantem igitur impellamus, inquit, et perditum 
prosternamus. Capit hoc consilium ut pecuniam quibusdam judicibus levissimis polli- 
ceatur, deinde earn postea supprimat; ut quoniam graves homines su& sponte severe, 
iudicaturos putabat, hos qui leviores erant, destitutione iratos Oppianico reddest’ 



310 


ANALYSIS OF CICFIRCFS [lect. xxviii. 


was to defend my client, not from facts, not upon the footing of in¬ 
nocence, but by taking advantage merely of the law in his behalf. 
Have I done so ? I appeal to yourself. Have I sought to cover 
him behind a legal defence only? On the contrary, have I not 
pleaded his cause as if he had been a senator, liable, by the Corne¬ 
lian law, to be capitally convicted; and shown, that neither proof 
nor probable presumption lies against his innocence ? In doing so, 
I must acquaint you, that 1 have complied with the desire of Cluen- 
tius himself. For when he first consulted me in this cause, and 
when I informed him that it was clear no action could be brought 
against him from the Cornelian law, he instantly besought and ob¬ 
tested me, that I would not rest his defence on that ground ; saying, 
with tears in his eyes, that his reputation was as dear to him as his 
life; and that what he sought, as an innocent man, was not only to 
be absolved from any penalty, but to be acquitted in the opinion of 
all his fellow citizens. 

‘Hitherto, then, I have pleaded this cause upon his plan. But my 
ehent must forgive me, if now I shall plead it upon my own. For 
I should be wanting to myself, and to that regard which my charac¬ 
ter and station require me to bear to the laws of the state, if I should 
allow any person to be judged of by a law which does not bind him. 
You, Attius, indeed, have told us, that it was a scandal and reproach, 
that a Roman knight should be exempted from those penalties to 
which a senator, for corrupting judges, is liable. But I must tell 
you, that it would be a much greater reproach, in a state that is re¬ 
gulated by law, to depart from the law. What safety have any of 
us in our persons, what security for our rights, if the law shall be 
set aside? By what title do ‘you, Q. Naso, sit in that chair, and 
preside in this judgment? By what right, T. Attius, do you accuse 
or do I defend ? Whence all the solemnity and pomp of judges, and 
clerks, and officers, of which this house is full ? Does not all proceed 
from the law, which regulates the whole departments of the state: 
which, as a common bond, holds its members together; and like 
the soul within the body, actuates and directs all the public func¬ 
tions ?* On what ground, then, dare you speak lightly of the law, 
or move that, in a criminal trial, judges should advance one step 
beyond wffiat it permits them to go ? The wdsdom of our ancestors 
has found, that, as senators and magistrates enjoy higher dignities 
and greater advantages than other members of the state, the law- 
should also, with regard to them, be more strict, and the purity and 
uncorruptedness of their morals be guarded by more severe sanctions' 


* ‘ Ait Attius, indignum esse facinus, si senator Judicio quenquam circumvenerit 
cum legibus tenen: si Eques Romanos hoc idem fecerit, eum non teneri Ut tihi 
concedam hoc indignum esse, tu mihi concedas necesse est multo esse indignius in e? 
civitate qu® legibus contineatur disced! a legibus. Hoc nam vinculum eg?hujus dit- 
nitatis qua frunnur m republic^. Hoc fundamentum libertatis; hie fons enuitatif- 
mens et animus, et consilium, et sententia civitatis posita est in legibus Ut cornn™ 
nostra sine mente, sic emtas sine lege, suis partibus, ut nervis ac sanguine & membris 
uti non potest. Legum mmistn, magistratus ; legum interpretes, judices ; Wum de-' 

hoTloctTeTear&c SUmUS Sem ’ " **** P ° SSimUS : Quid eSt ’ Q Naso > tu 




X.ECT. xxvtn.j ORATION FOR CLUENTItJS. Oil 

But if it be your pleasure that this institution should be altered, if 
you wish to have the Cornelian law, concerning bribery, extended 
to all ranks, then let us join, not in violating the law, but in propos¬ 
ing to have this alteration made by a new law. My client, Cluen- 
tius, will be the foremost in this measure, who now, while the old 
law subsists, rejected its defence, and required his cause to be 
pleaded, as if he had been bound by it. But, though he would not 
avail himself of the law, you are bound in justice not to stretch it 
beyond its proper limits.’ 

Such is the reasoning of Cicero on this head; eloquent surely, 
and strong. As his manner is diffuse, I have greatly abridged it 
from the original, but have endeavoured to retain its force. 

In the latter part of the oration, Cicero treats of the other accusa¬ 
tion that was brought against Cluentius, of having poisoned Oppi- 
anicus. On this, it appears, his accusers themselves laid small 
stress; having placed their chief hope in overwhelming Cluentius 
with the odjum of bribery in the former trial; and therefore, on 
this part of the cause, Cicero does not dwell long. He shows the 
improbability of the whole tale which they related concerning this 
pretended poisoning, and makes it appear to be altogether destitute 
of any shadow of proof. 

Nothing, therefore, remains, but the peroration or conclusion of 
the whole. In this, as indeed throughout the whole of this oration, 
Cicero is uncommonly chaste; and, in the midst of much warmth 
and earnestness, keeps clear of turgid declamation. The peroration, 
turns on two points; the indignation which the character and con¬ 
duct of Sassia ought to excite, and the compassion due to a son, per¬ 
secuted through his whole life by such a mother. He recapitulates 
the crimes of Sassia; her lewdness, her violation of every decorum ; 
her incestuous marriages, her violence and cruelty. He places, in 
the most odious light, the eagerness and fury which she had shown 
in the suit she w T as carrying on against her son; describes her jour¬ 
ney from Larinum to Rome, with a train of attendants, and a great 
store of money, that she might employ every method for circum¬ 
venting and oppressing him in this trial; while, in the whole 
course of her journey, she was so detested, as to make a solitude 
wherever she lodged; she was shunned and avoided by all; her 
company and her very looks were reckoned contagious; the house 
was deemed polluted which was entered into by so abandoned a 
woman.* To this he opposes the character of Cluentius, fair, un- 


* 1 Cum appropinquare hujus judicium ei nuntiatum est, confestim hue adolavit; 
ne aut accusatoribus diligentia, aut pecunia testibus deesset; aut ne forte mater hoc 
sibi optatissimum spectaculum hujus sordium atque luctus,et tanti squaloris amitteret. 
Jam vero quod iter Romam hujus mulieris fuisse existimatis P Quod ego propter vici- 
nitatem Aquinatium et Venafranorum ex multis comperi: quos concursus in his oppi- 
dis ? Quantos et virorum et mulierum gemitus esse factos ? Mulierem quandam Larino, 
atque illam usque a mari supero Romam proficisci cum magno comitatu et pecunid, 
quo facilius circumvenire judicio capitis, atque opprimere filium posset. Nemo erat 
illorum, poene dicam, quin expiandum ilium locum esse arbitraretur quacunque ilia 
iter fecisset; nemo, quin terram ipsam violari, quae mater est omnium, vestigiis con- 
seleratae matris putaret. Itaque nullo in oppido consistendi ei potestas fuit; nemo ex 
tot hospitibus inventus est qui non contagionem aspectfts fugeret.’ 

2 Y 



312 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect. XXVUf. 


spotted, and respectable. He produces the testimonies of the ma¬ 
gistrates of Larinum in his favour, given in the most ample and ho¬ 
nourable manner by a public decree, and supported by a great con¬ 
course of the most noted inhabitants, who were now present to 
second every thing that Cicero could say in favour of Cluentius. 

‘Wherefore, judges,’ he concludes, ‘if you abominate crimes, stop 
the triumph of this impious woman; prevent this most unnatural 
mother from rejoicing in her son’s blood. If you love virtue and 
worth, relieve this unfortunate man, who, for so many years, has 
been exposed to most unjust reproach through the calumnies raised 
against him by Sassia, Oppianicus, and all their adherents. Better 
far had it been for him, to have ended his days at once by the poison 
which Oppianicus had prepared for him, than to have escaped those 
snares, if he must still be oppressed by an odium which I have 
shown to be so unjust. But in you he trusts, in your clemency, and 
your equity, that now, on a full and fair hearing of this cause, you 
will restore him to his honour; you will restore him to his friends 
and fellow-citizens, of whose zeal and high estimation of him you 
have seen such strong proofs; and will show, by your decision, that 
though faction and calumny may reign for a while in popular meet¬ 
ings and harangues, in trial and judgment, regard is paid to the 
truth only.’ 

I have given only a skeleton of this oration of Cicero. What I 
principally aimed at, was to show his disposition and method; his 
arrangement of facts, and the conduct and force of some of his main 
arguments. But, in order to have a full view of the subject, and of 
the art with which the orator manages it, recourse must be had to 
the original. Few of Cicero’s orations contain a greater variety of 
facts and argumentations, which renders it difficult to analyze it fully. 
But for this reason I chose it, as an excellent example of managing 
at the bar, a complex and intricate cause, with order, elegance, and 
force. 


QUESTIONS. 


What was treated of in the last lec¬ 
ture ? Much of what was said on that 
head is applicable to what; and what 
is the consequence? But, as all that was 
said in the former lecture, must not be 
applied to it, what is of importance ? 
In the first place, what is observed ? In 
popular assemblies, what is the great 
object, and at what does the orator aim? 
For accomplishing this end, what is in¬ 
cumbent on him ? At the bar, what is 
the great object, and there, what is the 
speaker’s business; and to what, conse¬ 
quently, is his eloquence addressed? 
Of this difference, what is observed ? 
In the second place, to whom do speak¬ 
ers at the bar address themselves ? 


There, what have they not, for employ¬ 
ing the arts of speech ? How is this il¬ 
lustrated ? In the last place, what do 
the nature and management of the sub¬ 
jects which belong to the bar, require ? 
How is this difference illustrated ? For 
these reasons, what is clear; and for 
similar reasons, of what must we be¬ 
ware? Why is it necessary to warn 
young lawyers of this ? What is the 
first cause to which this was owing ? 
How is this remark illustrated ? What, 
consequently, more than jurisprudence, 
was the study of those who were to 
plead causes? What does Cicero some¬ 
where say; and even what opinion pre¬ 
vailed? There were among the Romans 












LECT. XXVIII.] 


QUESTIONS. 


m a 


what set of men; and what was their 
office? What may we next observe? 
How is this remark fully illustrated? 
Hence, what consequences followed; 
and hence, what practices, which would 
be reckoned theatrical among’ us, were 
common at the Roman bar? Why, then, 
would too strict an imitation of Cicero’s 
manner of pleading, now be extremely 
injudicious? As he may, however, still 
be studied to great advantage, in what 
ought he to be imitated? By what 
imitations of him would a pleader ren¬ 
der himself perfectly ridiculous? Be¬ 
fore descending to more particular di¬ 
rections concerning the eloquence of the 
bar, of what does our author take no¬ 
tice ? Of this, what is observed; and 
why? Besides previous study, and a 
proper stock of knowledge attained, 
what is highly material to the success 
of every pleader ? How did the ancient 
rhetoricians regard this? What does 
Cicero tell us on this subject? Whom 
does he very severely censure; and 
with what does he tax them ? To the 
same purpose, what is done by Quinti¬ 
lian ; and what does he again and 
again recommend ? Repeat the pas¬ 
sage. Suppose an advocate to be thus 
prepared, what is next observed ? 
What inference would be altogether 
wrong ? Though the manner of speak¬ 
ing be changed, yet what follows? 
From what consideration does it ap¬ 
pear that, perhaps, there is no scene 
of public speaking, where eloquence is 
more necessary than at the bar ? What 
does the dryness and subtilty of the 
subjects generally agitated at the bar, 
require? How is this illustrated ? 
What is no small encouragement to 
eloquence, at the bar ? To what is he 
less exposed than some others? Why 
is he sure of coming forward according 
to his merit ? What may be done for a 
young pleader, by his friends? Why 
will a reputation resting on these assist¬ 
ances, soon fall ? What must be laid 
down for a first principle ? Why may 
a little play to the imagination be some¬ 
times allowed; but how must this liber¬ 
ty be taken ? How is the speaker who 
uses a florid style and sparkling manner 
heard ? What is their effect ? What is 
chiefly to be studied ? Of what are the 
gentlemen of this profession often ac¬ 
cused ; and how are they betrayed in¬ 
to it ? What, therefore, cannot be too 


much recommended to those who are 
beginning to practice at the bar? To 
what habit should they form them¬ 
selves? If this habit be once acquired, 
what will be the consequence? Where¬ 
as, what will be the consequence of 
suffering a loose and negligent style to 
become familiar? What is a capital 
property in speaking at the bar; and 
in what two things, chiefly, should it 
be shown ? What is of the utmost con¬ 
sequence in every sort of oration; and 
where is this indispensable ? In what, 
therefore, cannot too much pains be 
taken; and why ? With respect to the 
conduct of narration and argument, 
what only, at present, is observed? 
Why is this remark made ? Whereas, 
by cutting off all superfluous circum¬ 
stances in his recital, what effect does 
he produce ? Why should a more dif¬ 
fuse manner in argumentation be used 
at the bar, than on some other occa¬ 
sions ? 

When the pleader comes to refute the 
arguments employed by his adversary, 
why should he not do them injustice ? 
Whereas, what will be the effect of 
stating them with accuracy and can¬ 
dour ? In this case, what are they natu¬ 
rally led to think? To what is the 
judge thereby inclined; and what re¬ 
mark follows ? When may wit be of 
service at the bar ? Though the repu¬ 
tation of wit be dazzling to a young 
pleader, yet why should he not. rest his 
strength upon this talent ? In pleading 
a cause, what is always of use ? How 
is this remark illustrated ? As an advo¬ 
cate personates his client, and stands in 
his place, what is very improper, and 
has a bad effect; and what follows? 
At the same time, of what must he 
beware; why; and what must never 
be forgotten? What is scarcely possible? 
How is this illcistrated ? How must this 
opinion of honour and probity, there¬ 
fore, be preserved ? Though, perhaps, 
the nature of the profession may ren¬ 
der it difficult to carry this delicacy to 
its utmost length, yet what follows? 
Embarking in what causes will he al¬ 
ways decline; and when he supports a 
doubtful one, what course will he pur¬ 
sue ? In what manner does our author 
propose further to illustrate this sub¬ 
ject? What oration has our author 
chosen; and why? What is the subject 
of the oration? Of the introduction 





m b 


QUESTIONS. 


[LECT. XXIX- 


what, if? observed ? How does it begin; 
and what were these two parts ? What 
does Cicero propose? On what does he 
make several proper observations; and 
what does he acknowledge ? Begging 
a patient and attentive hearing, of 
what does he assure the judges? What 
reigns throughout this introduction? 
Wliat circumstances naturally raised 
strong prejudices against Cicero’s client? 
What was, therefore, the first step to be 
taken by the orator; and in what man¬ 
ner? What rendered this plan proper? 
In executing his plan, what does he 
do? What evidence have we of the 
abandoned character of Sassia, the 
mother? What was the fate of Meli- 
nus ? When Oppianicus himself made 
his addresses to l^r, on what ground 
did she object to him ? Upon the remo¬ 
val of this objection, what followed ? 
How are these flagrant deeds painted 
by Cicero? As Cluentius could no 
longer live on terms with Sassia, what 
followed? What does Cicero say of 
Oppianicus? Repeat, fully, the history 
of the trial. Of both these Prejudicial 
what is observed; and what was a na¬ 
tural consequence? What was pecu¬ 
liar to this prosecution ? By what argu¬ 
ments does Cicero defend his client 
against this heavy charge of the 
Crimen corrupti Judicii? What is 
the effect of these plausible facts and 
reasonings ? What difficult part of the 
orator’s business still remained ? To all 
these decisions, how does Cicero reply; 
-and what does he show ? At length, 
Cicero comes to reason of what; and 
of what does he take advantage ? 
Why does our author introduce the 


following passage? Repeat it. In the 
latter part of the oration, of what does 
Cicero treat? Of this, what is observed? 
What does Cicero here show ? Of the 
peroration what is observed; and on 
what two points does it turn? With re¬ 
gard to Sassia, what does Cicero do? 
To the character of Sassia, what does 
he oppose; and what does lie produce? 
With what remarks does he conclude? 
In this skeleton, what was principally 
aimed at ? In order to have a full view 
of it, to what must recourse be had : 
and why? 


ANALYSIS. 

1. Eloquence of the bar. 

a. The difference between it and 

popular eloquence. 

b. Cicero’s and Demosthenes’ ora¬ 

tions not models for modern 
speakers at the bar. 

c. The requisites for a lawyer’s sue 

cess. 

a. A profound knowledge of his 

profession. 

b. Eloquence in pleading. 

D. Directions for speaking at the bar 

a. To be calm and temperate. 

b. Verbosity to be avoided. 

c. Distinctness a capital property . 

d. Conciseness in narration requi¬ 

site. 

e. Candidness in stating an oppo¬ 

nent’s arguments. 

f A proper degree of warmth 
useful. 

2. An analysis of one of Cicero’s ora¬ 

tions. 


LECTURE XXIX. 



ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 

Before treating of the structure and component parts of a regu¬ 
lar oration, I purposed making some observations on the peculiar 
strain, the distinguishing characters, of each of the three great kinds 
of public speaking. I have already treated of the eloquence of po¬ 
pular assemblies, and of the eloquence of the bar. The subject which 
remains for this lecture is, the strain and spirit of that eloquence 
which is suited to the pulpit. 

Let us begin with considering the advantages and disadvantages 
which belong to this field of public speaking. The pulpit has plain¬ 
ly several advantages peculiar to itself. The dignity and impor 












lect. xxix.3 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 


313 


lance of its subjects must be acknowledged superior to any other. 
They are such as ought to interest every one, and can be brought 
home to every man’s heart; and such as admit, at the same time, 
both the highest embellishment in describing, and the greatest ve¬ 
hemence and warmth in enforcing them. The preacher has also 
great advantages in treating his subjects. He speaks not to one or 
a few judges, but to a large assembly. He is secure from all inter¬ 
ruption. He is obliged to no replies, or extemporaneous efforts. 
He chooses his theme at leisure; and comes to the public with all 
the assistance which the most accurate premeditation can give him. 

But, together with these advantages, there are also peculiar dif¬ 
ficulties that attend the eloquence of the pulpit. The preacher, 
it is true, has no trouble in contending with an adversary ; but then, 
debate and contention enliven genius and procure attention. The 
pulpit orator is, perhaps, in too quiet possession of his field. His 
subjects of discourse are, in themselves, noble and important; but 
they are subjects trite and familiar. They have, for ages, employed 
so many speakers, and so many pens; the public ear is so much ac¬ 
customed to them, that it requires more than an ordinary power 
of genius to fix attention. Nothing within the reach of art is more 
difficult, than to bestow, on what is common, the grace of no¬ 
velty. No sort of composition whatever is such a trial of skill, as 
where the merit of it lies wholly in the execution; not in giving 
any information that is new, not in convincing men of what they 
did not believe; but in dressing truths which they knew, and 
of which they were before convinced, in such colours as may 
most forcibly affect their imagination and heart.* It is to be con¬ 
sidered, too, that the subject of the preacher generally confines 
him to abstract qualities, to virtues and vices; whereas, that of 
other popular speakers leads them to treat of persons; which is a 
subject that commonly interests the hearers more, and takes faster 
hold of the imagination. The preacher’s business is solely to make 
you detest the crime ; the pleader’s, to make you detest the crimi¬ 
nal. He describes a living person; and with more facility rouses 


* What I have said on this subject, coincides vei v much with the observations 
made by the famous M. Bruyere, in his Mceurs de Sieclc , when he is comparing’ the 
eloquence of the pulpit to that of the bar. ‘ L’eloqtience de la chaire, en ce qui y 
entre d’humain, & du talent de l’orateur, est cachee, connue de pen de personnes, & 
d’une difficile execution. II faut marcher par des chemins battus, dire ce qui a 6tc 
dit, &. ce qui I’on pr^voit que vous allez dire: les matieres sont grandes, mais us6es 
triviales; les principes surs, mais dont les auditeurs penctrent les conclusions d’une 
seule vue : il y entre des sujets qui sont sublimes, mais qui peut traiter le sublime?— 
Le Predicateur n’est point soutenu comme l’avocat par des faits toujours nouveaux, 
par de differens evenemens, par des aventures inouies ; il ne s’exerce point sur les 
questions douteuses; il ne fait point valoir les violentes conjectures, &. les presumptions; 
toutes choses, neanmoins, qui elevent le genie, lui donnent de la force. & de l’etendue, 
qui contraignent bien moins l’eloquence, qu’elles ne le fixent, le dirigent. Il doit 
au contraire, tirer son discours d’une source commune, &. ou tout le monde puise ; & 
s’il s’6carte de ces lieux communs il n’est plus populaire ; il est abstrait ou declamateur. 
The inference which he draws from these reflections is very just: ‘il est plus ais6 de 
precher que de plaider ; mais plus difficile de bien precher que de bien plaider.’ Les 
Oaracteres, ou Mceurs de ce Si&cle, p. 601 

40 




314 


ELOQUENCE OP THE PULPIT, [lect. xxix. 

/ 

your indignation. From these causes, it comes to pass, that though 
we have a great number of moderately good preachers, we have, 
however, so few that are singularly eminent. We are still far from 
perfection in the art of preaching; and perhaps there are few things, 
in which it is more difficult to excel.* The object, however, is no¬ 
ble, and worthy, upon many accounts, of being pursued with zeal. 

It may perhaps occur to some, that preaching is no proper sub¬ 
ject of the art of eloquence. This, it may be said, belongs only 
to human studies and inventions: but the truths of religion, with 
the greater simplicity, and the less mixture of art they are set 
forth, are likely to prove the more successful. This objection would 
have weight, if eloquence were as the persons who make such 
an objection commonly take it to be, an ostentatious and deceit¬ 
ful art, the study of words and of plausibility, only calculated to 
please, and to tickle the ear. But against this idea of eloquence 
I have all along guarded. True eloquence is the art of placing 
truth in the most advantageous light for conviction and persuasion. 
This is what every good man who preaches the gospel not only 
may, but ought to have at heart. It is most intimately connected 
with the success of his ministry; and were it needful, as assuredly 
it is not, to reason any farther on this head, we might refer to the 
discourses of the prophets and Apostles, as models of the most sublime 
and persuasive eloquence, adapted both to the imagination and the 
passions of men. 

An essential requisite, in order to preach well, is, to have a just, 
and at the same time, a fixed and habitual view of the end of preach¬ 
ing. For in no art can any man execute well, who has not a 
just idea of the end and object of that art. The end of all preach¬ 
ing is, to persuade men to become good. Every sermon, there¬ 
fore, should be a persuasive oration. Not but that the preacher is 
to instruct and to teach, to reason and argue. All persuasion, as I 
showed formerly, is to be founded on conviction. The understand¬ 
ing must always be applied to in the first place, in order to make a 
lasting impression on the heart: and he who would work on men’s 
passions, or influence their practice, without first giving them just 
principles, and enlightening their minds, is no better than a mere 
declaimer. He may raise transient emotions, or kindle a passing 
ardour, but can produce no solid or lasting effect. At the same time, 


Wh a t I say here, and in other passages, of our being far from perfection in the 
art of preaching, and of there being few who are singularly eminent in it is to be al 
ways understood as referring to an ideal view of the perfection of this art,’which none 
perhaps, since the days of the Apostles, ever did, or ever will reach. But in that de¬ 
gree of the eloquence of the pulpit, which promotes, in a considerable measure the 
great end of edification, and gives a just title to high reputation and esteem, there are 
many who hold a very honourable rank. I agree entirely in opinion with a candid 
judge (Dr. Campbell, on Rhetoric, b. i. ch. 10.) who observes, that considering how rare 
the talent of eloquence is among men, and considering all the disadvantages under 
which preachers labour, particularly from the frequency of this exercise, joined with 
the other duties of their office, to which fixed pastors are obliged, there is more reason 
to wonder that we hear so many instructive, and even eloquent sermons, than that we 
hear so few. 





lect.xxix.] ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 


315 


it must be remembered, that all the preacher’s instructions are to 
bh of the practical kind, and that persuasion must ever be his ulti¬ 
mate object. It is not to discuss some abstruse point, that he as¬ 
cends the pulpit; it is not to illustrate some metaphysical truth, or 
to inform men of something which they never heard before; but it 
is to make them better men; it is to give them, at once, clear views 
and persuasive impressions of religious truth. The eloquence of 
the pulpit,then, must be popular eloquence. One of the first quali¬ 
ties of preaching is to be popular; not in the sense of accommoda¬ 
tion to the humours and prejudices of the people, (which tends only 
to make a preacher contemptible,) but, in the true sense of the 
word, calculated to make impression on the people; to strike and 
to seize their hearts. I scruple not therefore to assert, that the ab¬ 
stract and philosophical manner of preaching, however it may have 
sometimes been admired, is formed upon a very faulty idea, and 
deviates widely from the just plan of pulpit eloquence. Rational, 
indeed, a preacher ought always to be; he must give his audience 
clear ideas on every subject, and entertain them with sense, not 
with sound: but to be an accurate reasoner will be small praise, if 
he be not a persuasive speaker also. 

Now, if this be the proper idea of a sermon, a persuasive oration, 
one very material consequence follows, that the preacher himself, 
in order to be successful, must be a good man. In a preceding lec¬ 
ture I endeavoured to show, that on no subject can any man be tru¬ 
ly eloquent, who does not utter the “ verae voces ab imo pectore,” 
who does not speak the language of his own conviction and his own 
feelings. If this holds, as in my opinion it does, in other kinds of 
public speaking, it certainly holds in the highest degree in preach¬ 
ing. There, it is of the utmost consequence that the speaker firm¬ 
ly believe both the truth and the importance of those principles 
which he inculcates on others; and, not only that he believe them 
speculatively, but have a lively and serious feeling of them. This 
will always give an earnestness and strength, a fervour of piety to 
his exhortations, superior in its effects to all the arts of studied elo¬ 
quence ; and, without it, the assistance of art will seldom be able to 
conceal the mere declaimer. A spirit of true piety would prove the 
most effectual guard againt those errors which preachers are apt to 
commit. It would make their discourses solid, cogent, and useful; 
it would prevent those frivolous and ostentatious harangues, which 
have no other aim than merely to make a parade of speech, or amuse 
an audience; and perhaps the difficulty of attaining that pitch of 
habitual piety and goodness, which the perfection of pulpit eloquence 
would require, and of uniting it with that thorough knowledge of 
the world, and those other talents which are requisite for excelling 
in^he pulpit, is one of the great causes why so few arrive at very 
high eminence in this sphere. 

The chief characteristics of the eloquence suited to the pulpit, as 
distinguished from the other kinds of public speaking, appear to me 
to be these two, gravity and warmth. The serious nature of the sub- 


316 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT, [lect. xxix, 

jects belonging to the pulpit, requires gravity; their importance 
to mankind, requires warmth. It is far from being either easy br 
common to unite these characters of eloquence. The grave, when it 
is predominant, is apt to run into a dull uniform solemnity. The 
warm, when it wants gravity, borders on the theatrical and light. 
The union of the two must be studied by all preachers as of the ut¬ 
most consequence, both in the composition of their discourses, and 
in their manner of delivery. Gravity and warmth united, form that 
character of preaching which the French call Onction ; the affect¬ 
ing, penetrating, interesting manner, flowing from a strong sensibi¬ 
lity of heart in the preacher to the importance of those truths which 
he delivers, and an earnest desire that they may make full impres¬ 
sion on the hearts of his hearers. 

Next to a just idea of the nature and object of pulpit eloquence, 
the point of greatest importance to a preacher, is a proper choice of 
the subjects on which he preaches. To give rules for the choice of 
subjects for sermons, belongs to the theological more than to the 
rhetorical chair; only in general, they should be such as appear to 
the preacher to be the most useful, and the best accommodated to 
the circumstances of his audience. No man can be called eloquent, 
who speaks to an assembly on subjects, or in a strain, which none 
or few of them comprehend. The unmeaning applause which the 
ignorant give to what is above their capacity, common sense and 
common probity must teach every man to despise. Usefulness and 
true eloquence always go together; and no man can long be reput¬ 
ed a good preacher, who is not acknowledged to be an useful one. 

The rules which relate to the conduct of the different parts of a 
sermon, the introduction, division, argumentative, and pathetic 
parts, I reserve, till I come to treat of the conduct of a discourse in 
general; but some rules and observations, which respect a sermon 
as a particular species of composition, I shall now give, and I hope 
they may be of some use. 

The first which I shall mention is, to attend to the unity of a ser¬ 
mon. Unity indeed is of great consequence in every composition; 
but in other discourses, where the choice and direction of the sub¬ 
ject are not left to the speaker, it may be less in his power to pre¬ 
serve it. In a sermon, it must be always the preacher’s own fault 
if he transgress it. What I mean by unity is, that there should be 
some one main point to which the whole strain of the sermon should 
refer. It must not be a bundle of different subjects strung together, 
but one subject must predominate throughout. This rule is found¬ 
ed on what we call experience, that the mind can fully attend only 
to one capital object at a time. By dividing, you always weaken 
the impression. Now this unity, without which no sermon can ei¬ 
ther have much beauty, or much force, does not require that there 
should be no divisions or separate heads in the discourse, or that 
one single thought only should be, again and again, turned up to 
the hearers in different lights. It is not to be understood in so nar¬ 
row a sense: it admits of some variety: it admits of under parts 


X.ECT. xxix.] ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 


317 


and appendages, provided always that so much union and connexion 
be preserved, as to make the whole concur in some one impression 
upon the mind. I may employ, for instance, several different argu¬ 
ments to enforce the love of God; I may also inquire, perhaps, 
into the causes of the decay of this virtue; still one great object is 
presented to the mind: but if, because my text says, 4 He that loveth 
God must love his brother also/ I should, therefore, mingle in one 
discourse, arguments for the love of God, and for the love of our 
neighbour, I should offend unpardonably against unity, and leave a 
very loose and confused impression on the hearers’ minds. 

In the second place, sermons are always the more striking, and 
commonly the more useful, the more precise and particular the sub¬ 
ject of them is. This follows, in a great measure, from what I was 
just now illustrating. Though a general subject is capable of being 
conducted with a considerable degree of unity, yet that unity can 
never be so complete as in a particular one. The impression made 
must always be more undeterminate; and the instruction conveyed 
will commonly, too, be less direct and convincing. General sub¬ 
jects, indeed, such as the excellency of the pleasures of religion, 
are often chosen by young preachers, as the most showy, and the 
easiest to be handled; and, doubtless, general views of religion are 
not to be neglected, as on several occasions they have great propri¬ 
ety. But these are not the subjects most favourable for producing 
the high effects of preaching. They fall in almost unavoidably with 
the beaten track of common-place thought. Attention is much 
more commanded by seizing some particular view of a great subject, 
some single interesting topic, and directing to that point the whole 
force of argument and eloquence. To recommend some one grace 
or virtue, or to inveigh against a particular vice, furnishes a subject 
not deficient in unity or precision; but if we confine ourselves to 
that virtue or vice as assuming a particular aspect, and consider it 
as it appears in certain characters, or affects certain situations in 
life, the subject becomes still more interesting. The execution is, 
I admit, more difficult, but the merit and the effect are higher. 

In the third place, never study to say all that can be said upon a 
subject; no error is greater than this. Select the most useful, the 
most striking, and persuasive topics,which the text suggests, and 
rest the discourse upon these. If the doctrines which ministers of 
the Gospel preach were altogether new to their hearers, it might be 
requisite for them to be exceedingly full on every particular, lest 
there should be any hazard of their not affording complete informa¬ 
tion. But it is much less for the sake of information than of per¬ 
suasion, that discourses are delivered from the pulpit; and nothing 
is more opposite to persuasion, than an unnecessary and tedious ful¬ 
ness. There are always some things which the preacher may sup¬ 
pose to be known, and some things which he may only slightly 
touch. If he seek to omit nothing which his subject suggests, it will 
unavoidably happen that he will encumber it, and weaken its force. 

In studying a sermon, he ought to place himself in the situation 
3 Z 


318 


ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT, [lect. xxrx. 


of a serious hearer. Let him suppose the subject addressed to him¬ 
self: let him consider what views of it would strike him most; what 
arguments would be most likely to persuade him; what parts of it 
would dwell most upon his mind. Let these be employed as his 
principal materials; and in these, it is most likely his genius will 
exert itself with the greatest vigour. The spinning and wire-draw¬ 
ing mode, which is not uncommon among preachers, enervates the 
noblest truths. It may indeed be a consequence of observing the 
rule which I am now giving, that fewer sermons will be preached 
upon one text than is sometimes done ; but this will, in my opinion, 
be attended with no disadvantage. I know no benefit that arises 
from introducing a whole system of religious truth under every text. 
The simplest and most natural method by far, is to choose that 
view of a subject to which the text principally leads, and to dwell 
no longer on the text, than is sufficient for discussing the subject in 
that view, which can commonly be done, with sufficient profound¬ 
ness and distinctness in one or a few discourses: for it is a very false 
notion to imagine, that they always preach the most profoundly, or 
go the deepest into a subject, who dwell on it the longest. On the 
contrary, that tedious circuit, which some are ready to take in all 
their illustrations, is very frequently owing, either to their want of 
discernment for perceiving what is most important in the subject, or 
to their want of ability for placing it in the most proper point of view* 

In the fourth place, study, above all things, to render your in¬ 
structions interesting to the hearers. This is the great trial and 
mark of true genius for the eloquence of the pulpit; for nothing is 
so fatal to success in preaching, as a dry manner. A dry sermon 
can never be a good one. In order to preach in an interesting 
manner, much will depend upon the delivery of a discourse; for 
the manner in which a man speaks, is of the utmost consequence 
for affecting his audience, but much will also depend on the com¬ 
position of the discourse Correct language, and elegant description, 
are but the secondary instruments of preaching in an interesting 
manner. The great secret lies in bringing home all that is spoken 
to the hearts of the hearers, so as to make every man think that the 
preacher is addressing him in particular. For this end, let him 
avoid all intricate reasonings; avoid expressing himself in general 
speculative propositions, or laying down practical truths in an ab¬ 
stract metaphysical manner. As much as possible, the discourse 
ought to be carried on in the strain of direct address to the au¬ 
dience; not in the strain of one writing an essay, but of one speak¬ 
ing to a multitude, and studying to mix what is called application, 
or what has an immediate reference to practice, with the doctrinal 
and didactic parts of the sermon. 

It will be of much advantage to keep always in view the different 
ages, characters, and conditions of men, and to accommodate direc¬ 
tions and exhortations to these different classes of hearers. When¬ 
ever you bring forth what a man feels to touch his own character, 
or to suit his own circumstances, you are sure of interesting him. 


319 


x.ect. xxix. j ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 

No study is more necessary for this purpose, than the study of hu¬ 
man life, and the human heart. To be able to unfold the heart, and 
to discover a man to himself, in a light in which he never saw his 
own character before, produces a wonderful effect. As long as the 
preacher hovers in a cloud of general observations, and descends 
not to trace the particular lines and features of manners, the audi¬ 
ence are apt to think themselves unconcerned in the description. 
It is the striking accuracy of the moral characters that gives the 
chief power and effect to a preacher’s discourse. Hence, examples 
founded on historical facts, and drawn from real life, of which kind 
the scriptures afford many, always, when they are well chosen, com¬ 
mand high attention. No favourable opportunity of introducing these 
should be omitted. They correct, in some degree, that disadvan¬ 
tage to which I before observed preaching is subject, of being con¬ 
fined to treat of qualities in the abstract, not of persons, and place 
the weight and reality of religious truths in the most convincing 
light. Perhaps the most beautiful, and among the most useful ser¬ 
mons of any, though, indeed, the most difficult in composition, are 
such as are wholly characteristical, or founded on the illustration of 
some peculiar character, or remarkable piece of history, in the sa¬ 
cred writings ; by perusing which, one can trace, and lay open, some 
of the most secret windings of man’s heart. Other topics of preach¬ 
ing have been much beaten ; but this is a field, which, wide in it¬ 
self, has hitherto been little explored by the composers of sermons, 
and possesses all the advantages of being curious, new, and highly 
useful. Bishop Butler’s sermon on the Character of Balaam , will 
give an idea of that sort of preaching which I have in my eye. 

In the fifth and last place, let me add a caution against taking the 
model of preaching from particular fashions that chance to have the 
vogue. These are torrents that swell to-day, and will have spent 
themselves by to-morrow. Sometimes it is the taste of poetical 
preaching, sometimes of philosophical, that has the fashion on its 
side; at one time it must be all pathetic, at another all argumentative, 
according as some celebrated preacher has set the example. Each 
of these modes, in the extreme, is very faulty; and he who con¬ 
forms himself to any of them, will both cramp genius, and corrupt 
it. It is the universal taste of mankind which is subject to no such 
changing modes, that alone is entitled to possess any authority; 
and this will never give its sanction to any strain of preaching, 
but what is founded on human nature, connected with usefulness, 
adapted to the proper idea of a sermon, as a serious, persuasive ora¬ 
tion, delivered to a multitude, in order to make them better men. 
Let a preacher form himself upon this standard, and keep it close in 
his eye, and he will be in a much surer road to reputation, and suc¬ 
cess at last, than by a servile compliance with any popular taste or 
transient humour of his hearers. Truth and good sense are firm, 
and will establish themselves ; mode and humour are feeble and 
fluctuating. Let him never follow, implicitly, any one example; 
or become a servile imitator of any preacher, however much admir- 


320 ELOQUENCE OP THE PULPIT, [lect. mix. 

cd. From various examples he may pick up much for his improve¬ 
ment: some he may prefer to the rest; but the servility of imita¬ 
tion extinguishes all genius, or rather is a proof of the entire want 
of genius. 

With respect to style, that which the pulpit requires, must cer¬ 
tainly, in the first place, be very perspicuous. As discourses spo¬ 
ken there, are calculated for the instruction of all sorts of hearers, 
plainness and simplicity should reign in them. All unusual, swoln. 
or high-sounding words, should be avoided; especially all words 
that are merely poetical, or merely philosophical. Youn°- preach¬ 
ers are apt to be caught with the glare of these; and in young com¬ 
posers the error may be excusable: but they may be assured that it 
is an error, and proceeds from their not having yet acquired a cor¬ 
rect taste. Dignity of expression, indeed, the pulpit requires in a 
high degree; nothing that is mean or grovelling, no low or vulgar 
phrases,ought, on any account, to be admitted. But this dignity is 
perfectly consistent with simplicity. The words employed may 
)e all plain words, easily understood, and in common use; and yet 
the style may be abundantly dignified, and at the same time very 
iively and animated ; for a lively and animated style is extremely 
suited to the pulpit. The earnestness which a preacher ought to feel, 
and the grandeur and importance of his subjects,justify, and often 
require, warm and glowing expressions. He not only may employ 
metaphors and comparisons, button proper occasions, may apostro¬ 
phise the saint or the sinner; may personify inanimate objects, 
break out into bold exclamations, and, in general, has the command 
ol the most passionate figures of speech. But on this subject, of 
the proper use and management of figures, I have insisted so fully 
in former lectures, that I have no occasion now to give particular 
directions; unless it be only to recall to mind that most capital rule, 
never to employ strong figures, or a pathetic style, except in cases 
where the subject leads to them, and where the speaker is impelled 
to the use of them by native unaffected warmth. 

The language of sacred scripture, properly employed, is a great 
ornament to sermons. It may be employed, either in the way of 
quotation, or allusion Direct quotations, brought from scripture, 
in order to support what the preacher inculcates, both give authority 
to his doctrine, and render his discourse more solemn and venera¬ 
ble. Allusions to remarkable passages, or expressions of scripture 
when introduced with propriety, have generally a pleasing effect 
They afford the preacher a fund of metaphorical expression, which 
"V th . er exposition enjoys, and by means of which he can vary 
and enliven his style. But he must take care that all such allusions 

n b :r 0 ^„ n c d e^ ; forlf they ** ‘PP-ch to 2* 



eect. xxix.] ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 


321 

In a sermon, no points or conceits should appear, no affected 
smartness and quaintness of expression. These derogate much 
from the dignity of the pulpit; and give to a preacher the air of 
foppishness, which he ought, above all things, to shun. It is rather 
a strong, expressive style, than a sparkling one, that is to be studied. 
But we must be aware of imagining, that we render style strong or 
expressive, by a constant and multiplied use of epithets. This is a 
great error. Epithets have often great beauty and force. But if 
we introduce them into every sentence, and string many of them 
together to one object, in place of strengthening, we clog and en¬ 
feeble style; in place of illustrating the image, we render it confus¬ 
ed and indistinct. He that tells me, 4 of this perishing, mutable, 
and transitory worldby all these three epithets, does not give 
me so strong an idea of what he would convey, as if he had used one 
of them with propriety. I conclude this head with an advice, never 
to have what may be called a favourite expression; for it shows af¬ 
fectation, and becomes disgusting. Let not any expression which is 
remarkable for its lustre or beauty, occur twice in the same dis¬ 
course. The repetition of it betrays a fondness to shine, and, at 
the same time, carries the appearance of a barren invention. 

As to the question, whether it be most proper to write sermons 
fully, and commit them accurately to memory, or to study only the 
matter and thoughts, and trust the expression, in part at least, to the 
delivery? I am of opinion,that no universal rule can here be given. 
The choice of either of these methods must be left to preachers, ac¬ 
cording to their different genius. The expressions which come 
warm and glowing from the mind, during the fervour of pronun¬ 
ciation, will often have a superior grace and energy to those which 
are studied in the retirement of the closet. But then, this fluency 
and power of expression cannot, at all times, be depended upon, 
even by those of the readiest genius ; and by many, can at no time 
be commanded, when overawed by the presence of an audience. 
It is proper therefore to begin, at least, the practice of preaching, 
with writing as accurately as possible. This is absolutely necessa¬ 
ry in the beginning, in order to acquire the power and habit of 
correct speaking, nay, also of correct thinking, upon religious sub¬ 
jects. I am inclined to go further, and to say that, it is pro¬ 
per not only to begin thus, but also to continue, as long as the ha¬ 
bits of industry last, in the practice both of writing, and commit- 

disrespectfully do we treat the Gospel of Christ, to which we owe that clear light 
both of reason and nature, which we now enjoy, when we endeavour to set up reason 
and nature in opposition to it? ought the withered hand which Christ has restored and 
made whole, to be lifted up against him?’ Vol. i. Disc. i. This allusion to a noted 
miracle of our Lord’s, appears to me happy and elegant. Dr. Seed is remarkably 
fond of allusions to scripture style ; but he sometimes employs such as are too fanciful 
and strained. As when he says, (Serm. iv.) “ No one great virtue will come single: 
the virtues that be her fellows will bear her company with joy and gladness .” alluding to 
a passage in the XLVth Psalm, which relates to the virgins, the companions of the king's 
daughter. And (Serm. xiii.) having said, that the universities have justly been called 
the eyes of the nation, he adds, and if the eyes of the nation be evil , (he whole body of 
it must be full of darkness. 


41 



322 


ELOQUENCE OP the PULPIT, [lect. XXIX. 

ting to memory. Relaxation in this particular is so common, and 
so ready to grow upon most speakers in the pulpit, that there L 

do!ngTna™y S1VmS ^ CaUti ° nS a S ainst the extreme of over- 

tha^tel now ° n ° r deV Z ery L 1 am hereafter to tre at apart. All 
sermons is nne JtU " P ‘ S h k ead is ’ that the Practice of reading 
V greatest obstacles to the eloquence of the pul- 

p in Great Britain, where alone this practice prevails No dis 
course, which is designed to be persuasive, can have the same force 
vhe„ read as when spoken. The common peopleallfeelThisand 

tore P WhalTstfinel ?“ n0t without foundation in na- 

„„ , at t IS sa'uecl hereby in point of correctness, is not eoual 

whose d ’ t0 what IS 0st ln P oint of persuasion and force They’ 

mtht Tr eS T n0t able t0 retai « ‘he whole of a discourse’ 

X“i “Sni?° rt fe “ y isb ° h ne ’ » ■ PieceTf coWn! 
composition, of the 

that prevails among t [ lem of taking [hmrTeat'from The hT‘ * "f'T 

dividing their subject alvvavs eithp ^ ^ ra ™P ec ’ b y their practice of 
and thefr combos ^tiondsT/geS toS&Z " T ^ ^ 
of a few thoughts spread o^, and 

rich variety of sentiments. Admittinf, however”all thes^dof “ 
it cannot be denied, that their sermons are formed uLn thO 0 0 

a persuasive popular oration; and therefore I am of onh ; ?u ° f 

may be read with benefit. me, i am ol opinion, they 

‘ ^ es Sermons sont suivant notre methnHp h • T- -—---— 

pas, comme chez les Anglois, des discussions metanlT™ 18 dlsC0urs °ratoires ; & non 
Acadamie, qu’aux Assemblies populaires qui se pluS convenab les k une 

s agit d mstruire des devoirs du Chretianisme, dVnLi™Sr de" “°* , temp ! es > et 

C***? „e, 

mST f r ^ L ^ ke iv af ll? W ^e W a h ro^ 

taken ill with a great fever. > an< *’ Simon s wife s mother wat 




i*ect. xxix.] ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 


323 


Among the French Protestant divines, Saurin is the most distin¬ 
guished ; he is copious, eloquent, and devout, though too ostenta¬ 
tious in his manner. Among the Roman Catholics, the two most 
eminent are Bourdaloue and Massillon. It is a subject of dispute 
among the French critics, to which of these the preference is due, 
and each of them has his partizans. To Bourdaloue, they attribute 
more solidity and close reasoning; to Massillon, a more pleasing 
and engaging manner. Bourdaloue is, indeed, a great reasoner, 
and inculcates his doctrines with much zeal, piety, and earnest¬ 
ness; but his style is verbose, he is disagreeably full of quotations 
irom the fathers, and he wants imagination. Massillon has more 
grace, more sentiment, and, in my opinion, every way more genius. 
He discovers much knowledge both of the world and of the human 
heart; he is pathetic and persuasive; and, upon the whole, is per¬ 
haps the most eloquent writer of sermons which modern times 
have produced.* 


* In order to give an idea of that kind of eloquence which is employed by the 
French preachers, I shall insert a passage from Massillon, which in the Encyclopedic, 
(article, Eloquence) is extolled by Voltaire, who was the author of that article, as a 
chef d’oeuvre, equal to any thing of which either ancient or modern times can boast. 
The subject of the sermon is, the small number of those who shall be saved. The 
strain of the whole discourse is extremely serious and animated; but when the orator 
came to the passage which follows, Voltaire informs us, that the whole assembly were 
moved; that by a sort of involuntary motion, they started up from their seats, and that 
such murmurs of surprise and acclamations arose as disconcerted the speaker, though 
they increased the effect of his discourse. 

‘ Je m’arr&te a vous, mes freres, qui 6tes ici assembles. Je ne parle plus du reste 
des hommes : je vous regarde comme si vous etiez seuls sur la terre: voici la pensee 
qui m’occupe qui m’epouvante. Je suppose que c’est ici votre derniere heure, et la 
fin de l’univers; que les cieux vont s’ouvrir sur vos totes. Jesus Christ paroitre dans 
sa gloire au milieu de ce temple, et que vous n’y etes assemblies que pour Pattendre, 
comme des criminels tremblans, a qui l’on va prononcer, ou un sentence de grace, oil 
un arret du mort eternelle. Car vous avez beau vous flatter; vous mouriez tels que 
vous etes aujourd’hui. Tous ces desirs de changement que vous amusent, vous amu- 
seront jusqu’au lit de la mort: c’est Pexperience de tous les siecles. Tout ce que vous 
trouverez alors en vous de nouveau, sera peut-etre un compte plus grand que celui que 
vous auriez aujourd’hui k rendre; et sur ce que vous seriez, si Pon venoit vous juger 
dans ce moment, vous pouvez presque decider ce que vous arrivera au sortir de la vie. 

1 Or, je vous le demande, etje vous le demande frappe de terreur, ne separant pas 
en ce point mon sort du votre, et me mettant dans la meme disposition ou je souhait 
que vous entriez ; je vous demande, done, si Jesus Christ paroissoit dans ce temple, au 
milieu de cette assemblee ; la plus auguste de Punivers, pour nous juger, pour faire le 
terrible discernement des boucs et des brebis, croyez vous que le plus grand nombre 
de tout ce que nous sommes ici, fut place k la droite? Croyez vous que les choses du 
moins fussent egales ? croyez vous qu’il s’y trouvat senlement dix justes, que le Seign¬ 
eur ne peut trouver autrefois en cinq villes toutes entieres ? Je vous le demande; vous 
1’ignorez, etje l’ignore moi-meme. Vous seed, O mon Dieu! connoissez que vous ap- 
partiennent.—Mes freres, notre perte est presque assuree, et nous n’y pensons pas. 
Quand meme dans cette terrible separation qui se fera un jour, il ne devroit y avoir 
qu’un seul pecheur de cet assemblee du c6te des reprouves, et qu’une voix du ciel vien- 
droit nous en assurer dans ce temple, sans le designer ; qui de nous ne craindroit d’etre 
de malheureux ? qui de nous ne retomberoit d’abord, sur sa conscience, pour examiner 
si ses crimes n’ont pas merite ce chatiment ? qui de nous, saisie de frayeur, ne deman- 
deroit pas k Jesus Christ comme autrefois les apdtres ; Seigneur, ne seroit ce pas moi ? 
Sommes nous sages, mes chers auditeurs P peut-etre que partni tous ceux qui m’enten- 
dent, il ne se trouvera pas dix justes ; peut-etre s’en trouvera-t-il encore moins Que 
sai-je, O mon Dieu ! je n’ose regarder d’un ceil fixe les abymes de vos jugemens, et de 
votre justice ; peut-etre ne s’en trouvera-t-il qu’un seul; et ce danger ne vous touche 



324 


ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT, [lect. xxix. 


During the period that preceded the restoration of King Charles 
II. the sermons of the English divines abounded with scholastic 
casuistical theology. They were full of minute divisions and 
subdivisions, and scraps of learning in the didactic part; but to 
these were joined very warm, pathetic addresses to the consciences 
of the hearers, in the applicatory part of the sermon. Upon the 
restoration, preaching assumed a more correct and polished form. 
It became disencumbered from the pedantry and scholastic divi¬ 
sions of the sectaries; but it threw out also their warm and pa¬ 
thetic addresses, and established itself wholly upon the model 
of cool reasoning and rational instruction. As the dissenters 
from the church continued to preserve somewhat of the old 
strain of preaching, this led the established clergy to depart the 
farther from it. Whatever was earnest and passionate, either 
in the composition or delivery of sermons, was reckoned enthu¬ 
siastic and fanatical; and hence that argumentative manner, bor¬ 
dering on the dry and unpersuasive, which is too generally the 
character of English sermons. Nothing can be more correct upon 
that model, than many of them are; but the model itself on which 
they are formed, is a confined and imperfect one. Dr. Clark, for 
instance, every where abounds in good sense, and the most clear 
and accurate reasoning; his applications of scripture are pertinent; 
his style is always perspicuous, and often elegant; he instructs and 
he convinces ; in what then is he deficient? In nothing, except in 
the power of interesting and seizing the heart. He shows you 
what you ought to do ; but he excites not the desire of doing it: 
he treats man as if he were a being of pure intellect without ima¬ 
gination or passions. Archbishop Tillotson’s manner is more free 
and warm, and he approaches nearer than most of the English 
divines to the character of popular speaking. Hence he is, to this 
day, one of the best models we have for preaching. We must not 
indeed consider him in the light of a perfect orator; his composi¬ 
tion is too loose and remiss; his style too feeble, and frequently too 
flat, to deserve that high character: but there is in some of his 
sermons so much warmth and earnestness, and through them all 
there runs so much ease and perspicuity, such a vein of good sense 
and sincere piety, as justly entitle him to be held as eminent a 
preacher as England has produced. 


point, mon cher auditeur ? et vous croyez etre ce seul heureux dans le grand nombre 
qui perira ? vous qui avez moins sujet de le croire que tout autre ; vous sur qui seul 
la sentence de mort devroit tomber. Grand Dieu ! qui l’on connoit peu dans le inonde 

les terreurs de votre loi,’&c.-After this awakening and alarming exhortation, the 

orator comes with propriety to this practical improvement: « Mais que conclure des 
ces grands verites? qu’il faut desesperer deson salut ? a Dieu ne plaise ; il n’y a que 
1 impie, qui, pour se calmer sur ses desordres, tache ici de conclure en secret que tons 
les homines periront comme lui; ce ne doit pas etre lk les fruits de ce discours. Mais 
de vous detromper de cette erreur si universelle, qu’on peut faire ce que tous les autres 
font; et que l’usage est une voie sure ; mais de vous convaincre que pour se sauver, il 
faut de distinguer des autres ; etre singulier, vivre k part au milieu du monde, et ne pas 
ressembler k la foule.’ 

Sermons de Massillon, Vol. IV 



lect. xxix.] ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 


325 


In Dr. Barrow, one admires more the prodigious fecundity of his 
invention, and the uncommon strength and force of his conceptions, 
than the felicity of his execution, or his talent in composition. We 
see a genius far surpassing the common, peculiar indeed almost to 
himself; but that genius often shooting wild, and unchastised by 
any discipline or study of eloquence. 

I cannot attempt to give particular characters of that great num¬ 
ber of writers of sermons which this, and the former age, have pro¬ 
duced, among whom we meet with a variety of most respectable 
names. We find in their composition much that deserves praise; a 
great display of abilities of different kinds, much good sense and 
piety, strong reasoning, sound divinity, and useful instruction; 
though in general the degree of eloquence bears not, perhaps, equal 
proportion to the goodness of the matter. Bishop Atterbury de¬ 
serves to be particularly mentioned as a model of correct and beau¬ 
tiful style, besides having the merit of a warmer and more eloquent 
strain of writing, in some of his sermons, than is commonly met 
with. Had Bishop Butler, in place of abstract philosophical essays, 
given us more sermons in the strain of those two excellent ones, 
which he composed upon self deceit, and upon the character of Ba¬ 
laam, we should then have pointed him out as distinguished for that 
species of characteristical sermons which I before recommended. 

Though the writings of the English divines are very proper to 
be read by such as are designed for the church, I must caution them 
against making too much use of them, or transcribing large pas¬ 
sages of them into the sermons they compose. Such as once indulge 
themselves in this practice, will never have any fund of their own. 
Infinitely better it is, to venture into the pulpit with thoughts and 
expressions which have occurred to themselves, though of inferior 
beauty, than to disfigure their compositions by borrowed and ill- 
sorted ornaments, which, to a judicious eye, will be always in ha¬ 
zard of discovering their own poverty. When a preacher sits down 
to write on any subject, never let him begin with seeking to consult 
all who have written on the same text or subject. This, if he con¬ 
sult many, will throw perplexity and confusion into his ideas; and 
if he consults only one, will often warp him insensibly into his 
method, whether it be right or not. But let him begin with pon¬ 
dering the subject in his own thoughts; let him endeavour to fetch 
materials from within; to collect and arrange his ideas; and form 
some sort of a plan to himself, which it is always proper to put 
down in writing. Then, and not till then, he may inquire how 
others have treated the same subject. By this means, the method 
and the leading thoughts in the sermon are likely to be his own. 
These thoughts he may improve, by comparing them with the track 
of sentiment which others have pursued; some of their sense he 
may, without blame, incorporate into his composition; retaining 
always his own words and style. This is fair assistance: all be¬ 
yond is plagiarism. 

On the whole, never let the capital principle with which we set 
3 A 


QUESTIONS. 


32G 


[lect. XXIX. 


out at first, be forgotten, to keep close in view the great end for which 
a preacher mounts the pulpit; even to infuse good dispositions into 
his hearers, to persuade them to serve God, and to become better 
men. Let this always dwell on his mind when he is composing, 
and it will diffuse through his compositions that spirit which will 
render them at once esteemed and useful. The most useful preacher 
is always the best, and will not fail of being esteemed so. Embel¬ 
lish truth only with a view to gain it the more full and free admis¬ 
sion into your hearers’ minds ; and your ornaments will, in that case, 
be simple, masculine, natural. The best applause, by far, which a 
preacher can receive, arises from the serious and deep impressions 
which his discourse leaves on those who hear it. The finest enco¬ 
mium, perhaps, ever bestowed on a preacher, was given by Louis 
XIV. to the eloquent Bishop of Clermont, Father Massillon, whom 
I before mentioned with so much praise. After hearing him preach 
at Versailles, he said to him, ‘Father, I have heard many great ora¬ 
tors in this chapel; I have been highly pleased with them : but for 
you, whenever I hear you, I go away displeased with myself; for I 
see more of my own character.’ 


QUESTIONS. 


Before treating of the structure and 
component parts of a regular oration, 
on what did our author propose making 
some observations ? Of what has he al¬ 
ready treated; and what remains? With 
what shall we begin ? What advantages 
has the pulpit peculiar to itself? But to¬ 
gether with these advantages, what 
peculiar difficulties attendthe eloquence 
of the pulpit ? What sort of composi¬ 
tion is the greatest trial of skill? What, 
also, is to be considered? What is solely 
the preacher’s business; and what is 
the pleader’s ? Whom does the latter 
describe; and what is the consequence? 
From these causes, what comes to pass? 
In the art of preaching, we are still far 
from what ; and what follows? Of the 
object, however, what is observed ? On 
this subject, what is the opinion of Dr. 
Campbell ? What may, perhaps, occur 
to some; and on what principle? Un¬ 
der what circumstances would this ob¬ 
jection have weight ? What is true elo¬ 
quence ? Of this, what is observed; and 
why ? What is an essential requisite, 
in order to preach well ? Why is this 
necessary ; and what is the end of all 
preaching? What, therefore, should 
every sermon be ? What remark fol¬ 
lows ; and on what is all persuasion 
founded ? How is this illustrated ? At the 
same time, what must be remembered ? 
For what purposes does he not ascend 
the pulpit; and for what purposes does 
lie asceud it ? Of what kind, then, must 


the eloquence of the pulpit be ? What 
is one of the first qualities of preaching; 
and in what sense ? What does our au¬ 
thor, therefore, not scruple to assert ? 
How is this remark illustrated ? If this 
be the proper idea of a sermon, what 
very material consequence-follows ? In 
a preceding lecture, what was shown ? 
If this holds in other kinds of public 
speaking, why does it hold in the high¬ 
est degree in preaching? What will 
this always give to his exhortations; 
and of this, what is observed ? What 
would prove the most effectual guard 
against those errors which preachers 
are apt to commit; and what would be 
its influence ? What is one of the great 
causes why so few arrive at very "high 
eminence in preaching ? What are the 
chief characteristics of the eloquence 
suited to the pulpit; and why ? Why 
is it difficult to unite these two charac¬ 
ters of eloquence ? In what should their 
union be studied by all preachers, as of 
the utmost consequence? What do gra¬ 
vity and warmth, united, form ; and by 
it, what is meant? Next to a just idea 
of the nature and object of pulpit elo¬ 
quence, what is the point of greatest 
importance to the preacher ? On this 
subject, what is remarked? In general, 
the subjects should be of what kind ? 
How is this illustrated ? As usefulness 
and true eloquence always go together, 
what follows ? Till what time are the 
rules which relate to the different parts 







LECT. XXIX.] 


QUESTIONS. 


326 a 


of a discourse, to be reserved; but 
what will now be given ? What is the 
first rule mentioned ? Of unity, what 
is here observed ? What does our au¬ 
thor mean by unity ? How is this illus¬ 
trated? On what is this rule founded; 
and what is the effect of dividing? 
What does this unity not require ? As 
it is not to be understood in so narrow a 
sense, what does it admit ? Of this re¬ 
mark, what illustration is given? In 
the second place, according to what 
are sermons always the more striking, 
and commonly the more useful; and 
from what does this follow ? How is 
this illustrated ? By whom are general 
subjects often chosen; and why ? Of 
these subjects, what is observed; and 
with what do they fall in ? By what 
course is attention much more particu¬ 
larly commanded ? What furnishes a 
subject not deficient in unity or pre¬ 
cision ? But how may the subject be 
made still more interesting ? What re¬ 
mark follows? In the third place, in¬ 
stead of saying all that can be said 
upon a subject, what course should be 
pursued? Under what circumstances 
would it be requisite lor the ministers 
of the Gospel to be full on every parti¬ 
cular ; and why ? What remark fol¬ 
lows ? There may always be what ? 
If he seeks to omit nothing which his 
subject suggests, what will be the con¬ 
sequence ? In studying a sermon, what 
should the preacher do? What mode 
enervates the noblest truths? What 
may be a consequence of observing 
this rule ? Why will this be attended 
with no disadvantage ? What is by far 
the simplest and most natural method; 
and why ? On the contrary, to what is 
that tedious circuit, which some are 
ready to take in all their illustrations, 
frequently owing ? 

In the fourth place, above all things, 
what must be studied ? Of this, what 
is observed; and why ? In order to 
preach in an interesting manner, on 
what will much depend; and for what 
reason ? What are here but the secon¬ 
dary instruments; and in what does 
the great secret lie ? For this end, what 
must he avoid ? As much as possible, 
in what strain should the discourse be 
carried on? What will be of much ad¬ 
vantage ; and for w r hat reason ? For 
this purpose, what study is most neces¬ 
sary ; and what produces a wonderful 
effect ? When are the audience apt to 
think themselves unconcerned in the 
description? What gives the chief 


power and efiect to a preacher’s dis¬ 
course ; and hence, what commands 
high attention? Why should no fa¬ 
vourable opportunity of introducing 
these be omitted ? YVhat, perhaps, are 
the most beautiful, and among the most 
useful, sermons ? Of this topic of preach¬ 
ing, what is observed ? What is men¬ 
tioned as an example? In the last place, 
what caution is added ? Of these, what 
is remarked ? How is this illustrated ? 
Of each of these modes, what is obser¬ 
ved ; and what follows? What, alone, 
is entitled to any authority; and of it, 
what is observed ? If a preacher forms 
himself upon this standard, what will 
be the consequence ? How is this re¬ 
mark illustrated? With respect to style, 
what does the pulpit require ? As dis¬ 
courses spoken, there are calculated for 
the instruction of all sorts of hearers, 
what should reign in them; and what 
should be avoided ? Of young preach¬ 
ers, what is here observed ? What does 
the pulpit require, and with what is this 
perfectly consistent? How is this illus¬ 
trated ? Why is a lively and animated 
style, extremely suited to the pulpit ? 
Besides employing metaphors and com¬ 
parisons, what may he do ? But on this 
subject, what only is it necessary to 
observe ? What is a great ornament to 
sermons, and how may it be employed? 
Of direct quotations, and of allusions to 
remarkable passages, what is observed ? 
In a sermon, what should not appear; 
and of these, what is observed ? Though 
a strong style must be studied, yet of 
what must we beware? Of epithets, 
what is remarked; and how is this il¬ 
lustrated ? With what advice does our 
author conclude this head ? What ques¬ 
tion is here introduced; and how is it 
answered ? To what must the choice of 
either of these methods be left ? Of the 
expressions which come warm and 
glowing from the mind, what is obser¬ 
ved? But, then, what follows? What 
method, therefore, is proper, and at the 
beginning absolutely necessary ? What 
is our author inclined still further to 
say ; and why ? What only, at present, 
is said of pronunciation and delivery ; 
and what remark follows? Of the com¬ 
mon people, what is here observed ? 
How might those materially aid them¬ 
selves, whose memories are not suffi¬ 
cient to retain a whole discourse ? Of 
French and English writers of sermons, 
what is here observed? What is a 
French sermon ? To what do the French 
preachers address themselves; and tQf 



326 b 


QUESTIONS. 


[lkct. XXX. 


what the English ? Wliat would form 
the model of a perfect sermon ? How 
would a French sermon sound in our 
ears ? What censure do French critics 
pass on English preachers ? What are 
the defects of most of the French ser¬ 
mons ? Admitting, however, all these 
defects, what cannot be denied? Among 
French protestant divines, who is the 
most distinguished; and who is the 
most celebrated among the Roman 
Catholics ? Of them respectively, what 
is observed? When did the sermons 
of English divines abound with scho¬ 
lastic theology; and of what were they 
full? But to these, what were subjoin¬ 
ed? Upon the restoration, what did 
preaching become ; and what was the 
effect of this upon the established cler¬ 
gy ? Upon this model, whose sermons 
are most correct; and what is said of 
him ? Of Tillotson’s manner, what is 
observed ? Hence, what is he; but why 
must we not consider him in the light of 
a perfect orator ? What, however, enti¬ 
tles him to be held as eminent a preach¬ 
er as England has produced ? In Dr. 
Barrow, what do we admire; and what 
do we see ? What cannot our author 
attempt; and what is observed of them ? 
Why does Atterbury deserve to be par¬ 


ticularly mentioned ? What is said of 
Bishop Butler, and what are his best, 
sermons? Against what are such as 
axe designed for the church here cau¬ 
tioned ; why; and what practice were 
infinitely better? When a preacher 
sits down to write a sermon, what 
course should he pursue; and for what 
reason ? On the whole, what should 
never be forgotten? What influence 
will this have upon his mind ; and 
what remarks follow ? What is the best 
applause that a preacher can receive ; 
and what instance is here mentioned ? 


ANALYSIS. 

1. The advantages of pulpit eloquence. 

2. The difficulties that attend it. 

3. An habitual view of its end essential. 

4. The character of the preacher. 

5. Its characteristics. 

Rules for composing sermons. 
a . Unity should be attended to. 

b. The subject should be particular. 

c. It should not be exhausted. 

d. The instructions should be interest¬ 
ing-. 

e. No particular model should be fol¬ 
lowed. 

6. Perspicuity of style requisite. 

7. Reading- sermons considered. 

8. The French and the English manner of 
preaching-. 

9. Disting-uished preachers of both nations. 


LECTURE XXX. 


CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A SERMON OF 
BISHOP ATTERBURY’S. 


The last lecture was employed in observations on the peculiar 
and distinguishing characters of the eloquence proper for the pulpit. 
But as rules and directions, when delivered in the abstract, are never 
so useful as when they are illustrated by particular instances, it may, 
perhaps, be of some benefit to those who are designed for the church, 
that I should analyze an English sermon, and consider the matter of 
it, together with the manner. For this purpose, I have chosen Bishop 
Atterbury as my example, who is deservedly accounted one of our 
most eloquent writers of sermons, and whom I mentioned as such in 
the last lecture. At the same time, he is more distinguished for ele¬ 
gance and purity of expression, than for profoundness of thought. 
His style, though sometimes careless, is, upon the whole, neat and 
chaste , and more beautiful than that of most writers of sermons. In 
his sentiments he is not only rational, but pious and devotional, which 
is a great excellency. The sermon which I have singled out, is that 
upon praise and thanksgiving, the first sermon of the first volume, 
which is reckoned one of his best. In examining it, it is necessary 
that I should use full liberty, and together with the beauties, point out 
any defects that occur to me, in the matter as well as in the style. 














lect. xxx.] SERMON OF BISHOP ATTERBURY'S. 


327 


Psalm i. 14. Offer unto God Thanksgiving. 

i Among the many excellencies of this pious collection of hymns, 
for which so particular a value hath been set upon it by the church 
of God in all ages, this is not the least, that the true price of duties 
is there justly stated; men are called off from resting in the outward 
show of religion, in ceremonies and ritual observances; and taught 
rather to practise (that which was shadowed out by these rights, 
and to which they are designed to lead) sound inward piety and 
virtue. 

‘The several composers of these hymns were prophets; persons 
whose business it was not only to foretel events, for the benefit of 
the church in succeeding times, but to correct and reform also what 
was amiss among that race of men with whom they lived and con¬ 
versed; to preserve a foolish people from idolatry and false wor¬ 
ship ; to rescue the law from corrupt glosses, and superstitious abus¬ 
es; and to put men in mind of (what they are so willing to forget) 
that eternal and invariable rule, which was before these positive du¬ 
ties, would continue after them, and was to be observed, even then, 
in preference to them. 

‘ The discharge, I say, of this part of the prophetic office, taking 
up so much room in the book of Psalms; this hath been one rea¬ 
son, among many others, why they have always been so highly es¬ 
teemed ; because we are from hence furnished with a proper reply 
to an argument commonly made use of by unbelievers, who look 
upon all revealed religions as pious frauds and impostures, on account 
of the prejudices they have entertained in relation to that of the 
Jews; the whole of which they first suppose to lie in external per¬ 
formances, and then easily persuade themselves, that God could 
never be the author of such a mere piece of pageantry and empty 
formality, nor delight in a worship which consisted purely in a 
number of odd, unaccountable ceremonies. Which objection of 
theirs we should not be able thoroughly to answer, unless we could 
prove, (chiefly out of the Psalms , and other parts of the prophetic 
writings,) that the Jewish religion was somewhat more than bare 
outside and show; and that inward purity, and the devotion of the 
heart, was a duty then as well as now.’ 

This appears to me an excellent introduction. The thought on 
which it rests is solid and judicious; that in the book of Psalms, 
the attention of men is called to the moral and spiritual part of reli¬ 
gion; and the Jewish dispensation thereby vindicated from the sus¬ 
picion of requiring nothing more from its votaries than the observ¬ 
ance of the external rights and ceremonies of the law. Such views 
of religion are proper to be often displayed; and deserve to be insist¬ 
ed on, by all who wish to render preaching conducive to the great 
purpose of promoting righteousness and virtue. The style, as far as 
we have gone, is not only free from faults, but elegant and happy. 

It is a great beauty in an introduction, when it can be made to 
turn on some thought, fully brought out and illustrated; especially, 


32S 


CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A [lect.xxx. 


if that thought has a close connexion with the following discourse, 
and, at the same time, does not anticipate any thing that is after¬ 
wards to be introduced in a more proper place. This introduction 
of Atterbury’s has all these advantages. The encomium which he 
makes on the strain of David’s Psalms, is not such as might as well 
have been prefixed to any other discourse, the text of which was 
taken from any of the Psalms. Had this been the case, the intro¬ 
duction would have lost much of its beauty. We shall see from what 
follows, how naturally the introductory thought connects with his 
text, and how happily it ushers it in. 

‘One great instance of this proof, we have in the words now be¬ 
fore us; which are taken from a Psalm of Asaph, written on pur¬ 
pose to set out the weakness and worthlessness of external perform¬ 
ances, when compared with more substantial and vital duties. To 
enforce which doctrine,God himself is brought in as delivering it. 
Hear , O my people , and I ivill speak; O Israel , and I will testi¬ 
fy against thee: lam God , even thy God. The preface is very 
solemn, and therefore what it ushers in, we may be sure is of no 
common importance; I will not reprove thee for thy sacrifices or 
thy burnt offerings to have been continually before me. That is, 
I will not so reprove thee for any failures in thy sacrifices and burnt- 
offerings, as if these were the only, or the chief things I required of 
thee. I will take no bullock out of thy house, nor he-goat out of 
thy folds: I prescribed not sacrifices to thee for my own sake, be¬ 
cause I needed them; for every beast of the forest is mine, and the 
cattle on a thousand hills. Mine they are, and were, before I 
commanded thee to offer them to me; so that, as it follows, If I 
were hungry, yet would I not tell thee; for the world, is mine, and 
the fulness thereof. But can ye be so gross and senseless as to think 
me liable to hunger and thirst? as to imagine that wants of that kind 
can touch me? Will I eat the flesh of bulls, or drink the blood of 
goats? Thus doth he expostulate severely with them, after the 
most graceful manner of the eastern poetry. The issue of which 
is a plain and full resolution of the case, in those few words of the 
text: Offer unto God thanksgiving. Would you do your homage 
the most agreeable way ? would you render the most acceptable of 
services? Offer unto God thanksgiving. 9 

It is often a difficult matter to illustrate gracefully the text of a 
sermon from the context, and to point out the connexion between 
them. This is a part of the discourse which is apt to become dry and 
tedious, especially when pursued into a minute commentary. 
And, therefore, except as far as such illustration from the con¬ 
text is necessary for explaining the meaning, or in cases where it 
serves to give dignity and force to the text, I would advise it to 
be always treated with brevity. Sometimes it may even be whol¬ 
ly omitted, and the text assumed merely as an independent propo¬ 
sition, if the connexion with the context be obscure, and would 
require a laborious explanation. In the present case, the illus¬ 
tration from the context is singularly happy. The passage of 
fhe Psalm on which it is founded is noble and spirited, and con- 


lect.xxx.] SERMON OF BISHOP ATTERBURY’S. 


329 

nected in such a manner with the text, as to introduce it with a very- 
striking emphasis. On the language I have little to observe, ex¬ 
cept that the phrase, one great instance of this proof is a clumsy 
expression. It was sufficient to have said, one great proof, or one 
great instance of this. In the same sentence, when he speaks of 
setting out the weakness and worthlessness of external perform¬ 
ances, we may observe, that the word worthlessness, as it is now 
commonly used, signifies more than the deficiency of worth, which is 
all that the author means. It generally imports, a considerable de¬ 
gree of badness or blame. It would be more proper, therefore, to say, 
the imperfection , or the insignificancy, of external performances. 

4 The use I intend to make of these words, is, from hence to raise 
some thoughts about that very excellent and important duty of praise 
and thanksgiving, a subject not unfit to be discoursed of at this time: 
whether we consider, either the more than ordinary coldness that 
appears of late in men’s tempers towards the practice of this (or any 
other) part of a'warni and affecting devotion; the great occasion of 
setting aside this particular day in the calendar, some years ago; or 
the new instances of mercy and goodness which God hath lately 
been pleased to bestow upon us; answering at last the many prayers 
and fastings by which we have besought him so long for the esta¬ 
blishment of their majesties’ throne, and for the success of their 
arms; and giving us in his good time, an opportunity of appearing 
before him in the more delightful part of our duty, with the voice 
of joy and praise, with a multitude that keep holy days? 

In this paragraph there is nothing remarkable; no particular 
beauty or neatness of expression; and the sentence which it forms 
is long and tiresome— to raise some thoughts about the very ex¬ 
cellent, &c. is rather loose and awkward; better, to recommend that 
very excellent , &c. and when he mentions setting aside a particular 
day in the calendar, one would imagine, that setting apart would 
have been more proper, as to set aside , seems rather to suggest a dif¬ 
ferent idea. 

4 Offer unto God thanksgiving. Which that we may do, let us 
inquire first, how we are to understand this command of offering 
praise and thanksgiving unto God; and then, how reasonable it is 
that we should comply with it.’ 

This is the general division of the discourse. An excellent one 
it is, and corresponds to many subjects of this kind, where particu¬ 
lar duties are to be treated of; first to explain, and then to recom¬ 
mend or enforce them. A division should always be simple and 
natural; and much depends on the proper view which it gives of 
the subject. 

4 Our inquiry into what is meant here, will be very short, for who 
is there, that understands any thing of religion, but knows, that the 
offering praise and thanks to God, implies, our having a lively and 
devout sense of his excellencies, and of his benefits; our recollect¬ 
ing them with humility and thankfulness of heart; and our ex¬ 
pressing these inward affections by suitable outward signs, by r«^ 

42 


330 


CRI1ICAL EXAMINATION OF A £lect. xxx. 

verent and lowly postures of body, by songs,and hymns, and spiritu¬ 
al ejaculations; either publicly or privately; either in the customa¬ 
ry and daily service of the church, or in its more solemn assemblies, 
convened upon extraordinary occasions? This is the account which 
every Christian easily gives himself of it; and which, therefore, it 
would be needless to enlarge upon. I shall only take notice upon 
this head, that praise and thanksgiving do, in strictness of speech, 
signify things somewhat different. Our praise properly terminates 
in God, on account of his natural excellencies and perfections; and 
is that act of devotion, by which we confess and admire his several 
attributes: but thanksgiving is a narrower duty, and imports only 
a grateful sense and acknowledgment of past mercies. We praise 
God for all his glorious acts of every kind, that regard either us or 
other men, for his very vengeance , and thos e judgments which he 
sometimes sends abroad in the earth; but we thank him, properly 
speaking, for the instances of his goodness alone; and for such only 
of these, as we ourselves are some way concerned in. This, I say, 
is what the two words strictly imply: but since the language of 
Scripture is generally less exact, and useth either of them often to 
express the other by, I shall not think myself obliged, in what fol¬ 
lows, thus nicely always to distinguish them/ 

I here was room for insisting more fully on the nature of the duty, 
than the author has done under this head; in particular, this was the 
place for correcting the mistake, to which men are always prone, of 
making thanksgiving to consist merely in outward expressions; and 
for showing them, that the essence of the duty lies in the inward 
feelings of the heart. In general, it is of much use to give full and 
distinct explications of religious duties. But as our author intended 
only one discourse on the subject, he could not enlarge with equal 
fulness on every part of it; and he has chosen to dwell on that part, 
on which, indeed, it is most necessary to enlarge, the motives en¬ 
forcing the duty. For as it is an easier matter to know, than to 
practise duty, the persuasive part of the discourse is that to which 
the speaker should always bend his chief strength. The account 
given in this head, of the nature of praise and thanksgiving, though 
short, is yet comprehensive and distinct, and the language is smooth 
and elegant. 

‘ Now, the great reasonableness of this duty of praise or thanks¬ 
giving, and our several obligations to it, will appear, if we either 
consider it absolutely in itself, as the debt of our natures; or com¬ 
pare it with other duties, and show the rank it bears among them; 
or set out, in the last place, some of its peculiar properties and ad¬ 
vantages, with regard to the devout performer of it/ 

The author here enters upon the main part of his subject, the rea¬ 
sonableness of the duty, and mentions three arguments for proving 
it. These are well stated, and are in themselves proper and weighty 
considerations. How far he has handled each of them to advance, 
will appear as we proceed. I cannot, however, but think that he 
has omitted one very material part of the argument, which was, to 
have shown the obligations we are under to this duty, from the vari- 


lect.xxx.] SERMON OF BISHOP ATTERBURY’S. 


331 


ous subjects of thanksgiving afforded us by the divine goodness. 
This would have led him to review the chief benefits of creation, 
providence and redemption; and certainly, they are these which 
lay the foundation of the whole argument for thanksgiving. The 
heart must first be affected with a suitable sense of the divine bene¬ 
fits, before one can be excited to praise God. If you would persuade 
me to be thankful to a benefactor, you must not employ such consi¬ 
derations merely as those upon which the author here rests, taken 
from gratitude’s being the law of my nature, or bearing a high rank 
among moral duties, or being attended with peculiar advantages. 
These are considerations but of a secondary nature. You must be¬ 
gin with setting before me all that my friend has done for me, if you 
mean to touch my heart, and to call forth the emotions of gratitude. 
The case is perfectly similar, when we are exhorted to give thanks 
to God; and, therefore, in giving a full view of the subject, the 
blessings conferred on us by divine goodness should have been taken 
into the argument. 

It may be said, however, in apology for our author, that this would 
have led him into too wide a field for one discourse, and into a field 
also, which is difficult, because so beaten: the enumeration of the 
divine benefits. He therefore seems to take it for granted, that we 
have upon our minds a just sense of these benefits. He assumes 
them as known and acknowledged ; and setting aside what may be 
called the pathetic part of the subject, or what was calculated to 
warm the heart, he goes on to the reasoning part. In this manage¬ 
ment, I cannot altogether blame him. I do not by any means say 
that it is necessary in every discourse to take in all that belongs to 
the doctrine of which we treat. Many a discourse is spoiled, by 
attempting to render it too copious and comprehensive. The preach¬ 
er may* without reprehension, take up any part of a great subject, 
to which his genius at the time leads him, and make that his theme : 
but when he omits any thing which may be thought essential, he 
ought to give notice, that this is a part which for the time, he lays 
aside. Something of this sort would perhaps have been proper here. 
Our author might have begun, by saying, that the reasonableness of 
this duty must appear to every thinking being, who reflects upon 
the infinite obligations which are laid upon us, by creating, preserv¬ 
ing, and redeeming love; and, after taking notice that the field which 
these open, was too wide for him to enter upon at that time, have 
proceeded to his other heads. Let us now consider these separately. 

4 The duty of praise and thanksgiving, considered absolutely , in 
itself, is, I say, the debt and law of our nature. We had such facul¬ 
ties bestowed on us by our Creator, as made us capable of satisfying 
this debt, and obeying this law; and they never, therefore, work 
more naturally and freely, than when they are thus employed. 

4 ’Tis one of the earliest instructions given us by philosophy, and 
which has ever since been approved and inculcated by the wisest 
men of all ages, that the original design of making man was, that he 
might praise and honour him who made him. When God had 


332 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A [lect. xxx. 

finished this goodly frame of things we call the world , and put toge¬ 
ther the several par ts of it, according to his infinite wisdom, in exact 
number, weight, and measure; there was still wanting a creature, 
in these lower regions, that could apprehend the beauty, order, and 
exquisite contrivance of it; that, from contemplating the gift, might 
be able to raise itself to the great Giver, and do honour to all his attri¬ 
butes. Every thing, indeed, that God made, did, in some sense, glo¬ 
rify its Author, inasmuch as it carried upon it the plain mark and 
impress of the Deity, and was an effect worthy of that first cause from 
whence it flowed; and thus might the heavens be said, at the first 
moment in which they stood forth, to declare his glory , and the fir- 
jnament to show his handy work: But this was an imperfectand de¬ 
fective glory; the sign was of no signification here below, whilst there 
was no one here as yet to take notice of it. Man, therefore, was formed 
to supply this want, endowed with powers fit to find out, and to ac¬ 
knowledge these unlimited perfections; and then put into this temple 
of God, this lower world, as the priest of nature, to offer up the incense 
of tnanks and praise for the mute and insensible part of the creation. 

4 This, I say, hath been the opinion all along of the most thought¬ 
ful men down from the most ancient times: and though it be not 
demonstrative, yet it is what we cannot but judge highly reason¬ 
able, if we do but allow that man was made for some end or other; 
and that he is capable of perceiving that end. For then, let us 
search and inquire never so much, we find no other account of him 
that we can rest upon so well. If we say, that he was made purely 
for the good pleasure of God; this is, in effect, to say, that he was 
made for no determinate end; or for none, at least, that we can dis¬ 
cern. If we say, that he was designed as an instance of the wis¬ 
dom, and power, and goodness of God ; this, indeed, may be the 
reason of his being in general; for ’tis the common reason of the 
being of every thing besides. But it gives no account why he was 
made such a thing as he is; a reflecting, thoughtful, inquisitive be¬ 
ing. 1 he particular reason of this, seems most aptly to be drawn 
from the praise and honour that was (not only to redound to God 
from him, but) to be given to God by him.’ 

The thought which runs through all this passage, of man’s beino* 
the priest of nature, and of his existence being calculated chiefly 
for that end, that he might offer up the praises of the mute part of 
the creation, is an ingenious thought, and well illustrated. It was a fa¬ 
vourite idea among some of the ancient philosophers; and it is not 
the worse on that account, as it thereby appears to have been a natu¬ 
ral sentiment of the human mind. In composing a sermon, how¬ 
ever, it might have been better to have introduced it as a sort of 
collateral argument, or an incidental illustration, than to have dis¬ 
played it with so much pomp, and to have placed it in the front of 
the arguments for this duty. It does not seem to me, when placed 
in this station, to bear all the stress which the author lays upon it. 
When the divine goodness brought man into existence, we cannot 
well conceive that its chief purpose was, to form a being who might 


333 


lect.xxx.] SERMON OF BISHOP ATTERBURY’S. 

sing praises to his Maker. Prompted by infinite benevolence, the 
Supreme Creator formed the human race, that they might rise to 
happiness, and to the enjoyment of himself, through a course of 
virtue, or proper action. The sentiment on which our author 
dwells, however beautiful, appears too loose and rhetorical to be a 
principal head of discourse. 

‘ This duty, therefore, is the debt and law of our nature. And it 
will more distinctly appear to be such, if we consider the two ruling 
faculties of our mind, the understanding and the WJ27/,apart, in both 
which it is deeply founded : in the understanding, as in the principle 
of reason, which owns and acknowledges it; in the vvill,as in the 
fountain of gratitude and return, which prompts, and even constrains 
us to pay it. 

‘Reason was given us as a rule and measure, by the help of which 
we were to proportion our esteem of every thing, according to the 
degrees of perfection and goodness which we found therein. It can¬ 
not therefore, if it doth its office at all, but apprehend God as the 
best and most perfect being; it must needs see, and own, and ad¬ 
mire his infinite perfections. And this is what is strictly meant by 
praise ; which, therefore, is expressed in Scripture, by confessing to 
God, and acknowledging him ; by ascribing to him what is his due; 
and as far as this sense of the words reaches, ’tis impossible to think 
of God without praising him; for it depends noton the understand¬ 
ing, how it shall apprehend things, any more than it doth on the eye, 
how visible objects shall appear to it. 

‘The duty takes the further and surer hold of us, by the means 
of the will, and that strong bent towards gratitude, which the Au¬ 
thor of our nature hath implanted in it. There is not a more ac¬ 
tive principle than this in the mind of man; and surely that which 
deserves its utmost force, and should set all its springs a-work, is 
God; the great and universal Benefactor, from whom alone we re¬ 
ceived whatever we either have, or are, and to whom we can possibly 
repay nothing but our praises, or (to speak more properly on this 
head, and according to the strict impart of the word) our thanks¬ 
giving. Who hath first given to God , (saith the great Apostle, in 
his usual figure) audit shall be recompensed unto him again ? A gift, 
it seems, always requires a recompense: nay ,but of him, and through 
him , and to him,are all things: of him , as the Author; through him , 
as the Preserver and Governor; to him, as the end and perfection of 
all things; to whom, therefore, (as it follows,) be glory for ever, 
Amen!’ 

I cannot much approve of the light in which our author places 
his argument in these paragraphs. There is something too meta¬ 
physical and refined, in his deducing, in this manner, the obligation 
to thanksgiving, from the two faculties of the mind, understanding 
and will. Though what he says be in itself just, yet the argument 
is not sufficiently plain and striking. Arguments in sermons, espe¬ 
cially on subjects that so naturally and easily suggest them, should 
he palpable and popular; shoukf not be brought from topics that 
appear far sought, but should directly address the heart and feelings. 


334 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A [lect.xxx. 

The preacher ought never to depart too far from the common ways 
of thinking and expressing himself. I am inclined to think, that 
this whole head might have been improved, if the author had taken 
up more obvious ground; had stated gratitude as one of the most 
natural principles of the human heart; had illustrated this, by show¬ 
ing how odious the opposite disposition is, and with what general 
consent men, in all ages, have agreed in hating and condemning the 
ungrateful; and then applying these reasonings to the present case, 
had placed, in a strong view, that entire corruption of moral senti¬ 
ment which it discovers, to be destitute of thankful emotions to¬ 
wards the Supreme Benefactor of mankind. As the most natural 
method of giving vent to grateful sentiments is, by external expres¬ 
sions ox thanksgiving, he might then have answered the objection 
that is apt to occur, of the expression of our praise being insignifi¬ 
cant to the Almighty. But, by seeking to be too refined in his argu¬ 
ment, he has omitted someof the most striking and obvious consitler- 
ations, and which,properly displayed, would have afforded as great 
a held for eloquence as the topics which he has chosen. He o- 0e s 

‘Gratitude consists in an equal return of benefits, if we are able • 
ol thanks, if we are not: which thanks, therefore, must rise always 
m proportion as the favours received are great, and the receiver inca¬ 
pable of making any other sort of requital. Now, since no man hath 
benefited God at any time, and yet every man, in each moment of 
his life, is continually benefited by him, what strong obligations must 
we needs be under to thank him? *Tis true, our thanks are really 
as insignificant to him, as any other kind of return would be • in 
themselves, indeed, they are worthless; but his goodness has nut 
a vame upon them: he hath declared, he will accept them in lieu 
ol the vast debt we owe; and after that, which is fittest for us, to 
dispute ho w they came to be taken as an equivalent , or to pay them ? 

' If *!’ j herefo J' e ’ the V01ce °f nature (as far as gratitude itself is 
so; that the good things we receive from above, should be sent back 
again thither in thanks and praises ; as the rivers run into the sea 
to the place (the ocean of beneficence) ivhence the rivers come. 
thither should they return again.* 

In these paragraphs, he has, indeed, touched some of the consi¬ 
derations vyhich I mentioned. But he has only touched them • 
whereas, with advantage, they might have formed the main body of 
his argument. * 

‘ W ® h T consid f ed duty absolutely; we are now to compare 
it with others and to see what rank it bears among them. And 
here we shall find, that, among all the acts of religion immediately 
addressed to God, this is much the noblest and most excellent • as it 
must needs be, if what hath been laid down be allowed, that the end 

but'be the C mo at r n M * - ,0ri< > God 1 for that cannot 

but be the most noble and excellent act of any being which best an¬ 
swers the end and design of it. Other parts of devotion, such as 
confession and grayer, seem not originally to have been designed for 
man, nor man for them. They imply guilt and want, with which 



lect. xxx.J SERMON OF BISHOP ATTERBURY’S. 


335 


t he state of innocence was not acquainted. Had man continued in 
that estate, his worship (like the devotions of angels) had been paid 
to Heaven in pure acts of thanksgiving; and nothing had been left 
for him to do, beyond the enjoying the good things of life, as nature 
directed, and praising the God of nature who bestowed them. But 
being fallen from innocence and abundance; having contracted guilt, 
and forfeited his right to all sorts of mercies; prayer and confession 
became necessary, for a time, to retrieve the loss, and to restore him 
to that state wherein he should be able to live without them. These 
are fitted, therefore, for a lower dispensation; before which, in Pa¬ 
radise, there was nothing but praise, and after which, there shall 
be nothing but that in Heaven. Our perfect state did at first, and 
will at last, consist in the performance of this duty; and herein, 
therefore, lies the excellence and the honour of our nature. 

4 ’Tis the same way of reasoning, by which the Apostle hath given 
the preference to charity 7 , beyond faith, and hope, and every spirit¬ 
ual gift. Charity never failelh, saith he; meaning, that it is not 
a virtue useful only in this life, but will accompany us also into the 
next: hat whether there he prophecies , they shall fail; whether 
there he tongues , they shall cease ; whether there be knowledge, it 
shall vanish away . These are gifts of a temporary advantage, and 
shall all perish in the using. For jve know in part, and we pro¬ 
phesy in part : our present state is imperfect, and, therefore, what 
belongs to that, and only that, must be imperfect too. But when 
that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done 
away. The argument of St. Paul, we see, which sets charity above 
the rest of Christian graces, will give praise also the pre-eminence 
over all the parts of the Christian worship; and we may conclude our 
reasoning, therefore,as he doth his: And now abideth confession , 
prayer , and praise, these three; hut the greatest of these is praise.’ 

The author, here, enters on the second part of his argument, the 
high rank which thanksgiving holds, when compared with other 
duties of religion. This he handles with much eloquence and 
beauty. His idea, that this was the original worship of man, be¬ 
fore his fall rendered other duties requisite, and shall continue to 
be his worship in Heaven, when the duties which are occasioned by 
a consciousness of guilt shall have no place, is solid and just; his 
illustration of it is very happy; and the style extremely flowing and 
sweet. Seldom do we meet with any piece of composition in ser¬ 
mons, that has more merit than this head. 

‘It is so, certainly, on other accounts, as well as this; particular¬ 
ly, as it is the most disinterested branch of our religious service; 
such as hath the most of God, and the least of ourselves in it, of any 
we pay; and therefore approaches the nearest of any to a pure, 
and free, and perfect act of homage. For though a good action 
does not grow immediately worthless by being done with the 
prospect of advantage, as some have strangely imagined ; yet it 
will be allowed, I suppose, that its being done, without the mix¬ 
ture of that end, or with as little of it as possible, recommends 


336 


CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A [lect.xxx. 


it so much the more, and raises the price of it. Doth Job fear God 
for nought? was an objection of Satan; which implied, that those 
duties were most valuable, where our own interest was the least 
aimed at: and God seems, by the commission he then gave Satan, 
to try experiments upon Job , thus far to have allowed his plea. 
Now our requests for future, and even our acknowledgements of 
past mercies, centre purely in ourselves; our own interest is the di¬ 
rect aim of them. But praise is a generous and unmercenary prin¬ 
ciple, which proposes no other end to itself, but to do, as is fit for a 
creature endowed with such faculties to do, towards the most per¬ 
fect and beneficent of beings; and to pay the willing tribute of ho¬ 
nour there, where the voice of reason directs us to pay it. God hath 
indeed annexed a blessing to the duty, and when we know this, we 
cannot choose, while we are performing the duty, but have some 
regard to the blessing which belongs to it. However, that is not 
the direct aim of our devotions, nor was it the first motive that stir¬ 
red us up to them. Had it been so, we should naturally have be¬ 
taken ourselves to prayer, and breathed out our desires in that form 
wherein they are most properly conveyed. 

‘In short, praise is our most excellent work; a work common to 
the church triumphant and militant, and which lifts us up into com¬ 
munion and fellowship with angels. The matter about which it is 
conversant, is always the perfection of God’s nature; and the act 
itself is the perfection of ours.’ 

Our author’s second illustration is taken from praise being the 
most disinterested act of homage. This he explains justly and ele¬ 
gantly ; though, perhaps, the consideration is rather too thin and 
refined for enforcing religious duties: as creatures, such as we, in 
approaching to the divine presence, can never be supposed to lay 
aside all consideration of our own wants and necessities; and cer¬ 
tainly are not required (as the author admits) to divest ourselves of 
such regards. The concluding sentence of this head is elegant, and 
happily expressed. 

‘I come now, in the last place, to set out some of its peculiar 
properties and advantages , which recommend it to the devout per¬ 
former. And, 

‘1. It is the most pleasing part of our devotions: it proceeds al¬ 
ways from a lively, cheerful temper of mind, and it cherishes and im¬ 
proves what it proceeds from. For it is good to sing praises unto 
our God , (says one, whose experience, in this case, we may rely 
upon) for it is pleasant , and praise is comely. Petition and confes¬ 
sion are the language of the indigent and the guilty, the breathings 
of a sad and contrite spirit; Is any afflicted ? let him pray : but z\v 
any merry? let him sing psalms . The most usual and natural 
way of men’s expressing the mirth of their hearts is in a song, and 
songs are the very language of praise; to the expressing of which 
they are in a peculiar manner appropriated, and are scarce of any 
other use in religion. Indeed, the whole composition of this duty 
is such, as throughout speaks ease and delight to the mind. It pro- 


LfiCT. xxx.] SERMON OF BISHOP ATTERBURY’S. 


337 


ceeds from love and from thankfulness; from love, the fountain of 
pleasure, the passion which gives every thing we do, or enjoy, its 
relish and agreeableness. From thankfulness , which involves in 
it the memory of past benefits, the* actual presence of them to the 
mind, and the repeated enjoyment of them. And as is its principle, 
such is its end also: for it procureth quiet and ease to the mind, by 
doing somewhat towards satisfying that debt which it labours under; 
by delivering it to those thoughts of praise and gratitude, those ex¬ 
ultations it is so full of; and which should grow uneasy and trouble¬ 
some to it if they were kept in. If the thankful ( refrained, it would 
be pain and grief’ to them: but then, then ‘is their soul satisfied as 
with marrow and fatness, when their mouth praiseth God with ioy- 
ful lips.’ ’ 

In beginning this head of discourse, the expression which the au¬ 
thor uses, 6 to set out some of its peculiar properties and advantages,’ 
would now be reckoned not so proper an expression, as ‘ to point out/ 
or ‘ to show.’ The first subdivision, concerning praise being the 
most pleasant part of devotion, is very just and well expressed, as far 
as it goes; but seems to me rather defective. Much more might 
have been said, upon the pleasure that accompanies such exalted acts 
of devotion. It w r as a cold thought, to dwell upon its disburdening 
the mind of a debt. The author should have insisted more upon 
the influence of praise and thanksgiving, in warming, gladdening, 
soothing the mind ; lifting it above the world, to dwell among divine 
and eternal objects. He should have described the peace and joy 
which then expand the heart; the relief which this exercise procures 
from the cares and agitations of life ; the encouraging views of Pro¬ 
vidence to which it leads our attention : and the trust w T hich it pro¬ 
motes in the divine mercy for the future, by the commemoration of 
benefits past. In short, this was the place for his pouring out a 
greater flow of devotional sentiments than what we here find. 

‘2. It is another distinguishing property of divine praise,that it 
enlargeth the powers and capacities of our souls, turning them from 
low and little things, upon their greatest and noblest object, the 
divine nature, and employing them in the discovery and admiration 
of those several perfections that adorn it. We see what difference 
there is between man and man, such as there is hardly greater be¬ 
tween man and beast: and this proceeds chiefly from the different 
sphere of thought which they act in, and the different objects they 
converse with. The mind is essentially the same in the peasant and 
the prince ; the force of it naturally equal, in the untaught man, and 
the philosopher; only the one of these is busied in mean affairs, and 
within narrower bounds; the other exercises himself in things of 
weight and moment; and this it is, that puts the wide distance be¬ 
tween them. Noble objects are to the mind, what the sunbeams 
are to a bud or flower; they open and unfold, as it were, the leaves 
of it; put it upon exerting and spreading itself every way; and call 
forth all those powers that lie hid and locked up in it. The praise 
and admiration of God, therefore, bring this advantage along with 

43 


838 


CRITICAL EXAMINATION OP" A [lect. xxx 


it, that it sets our faculties upon their full stretch, and improves them 
to all the degrees of perfection of which they are capable.’ 

This head is just, well expressed, and to censure it might appear 
hypercritical. Some of the expressions, however, one would think 
might be amended. The simile, for instance, about the effects ol 
the sunbeams upon the bud or flower, is pretty, but not correctly 
expressed. ‘ They open and unfold, as it were, the leaves of it.’ If 
this is to be literally applied to the flower, the phrase, ‘ as it were,’ 
is needless; if it is to be metaphorically understood,(which appears 
to be the case,) the ‘ leaves of the mind,’ is harsh language ; besides 
that,‘put it upon exerting itself,’ is rather a low expression. Nothing 
is more nice than to manage properly such similes and allusions, so 
as to preserve them perfectly correct, and at the same time to render 
the image lively : it might perhaps be amended in some such way 
as this: ‘ As the sunbeams open the bud, and unfold the leaves of a 
flower, noble objects have a like effect upon the mind: they expand 
and spread it, and call forth those powers that before lay hid and 
locked up in the soul.’ 

< 3. It farther promotes in us an exquisite sense of God’s honour, 
and a high indignation of mind at every thing that openly profanes 
it. For what we value and delight in, we cannot with patience hear 
slighted or abused. Our own praises, which we are constantly put¬ 
ting up, will be a spur to us towards procuring and promoting the 
divine glory in every other instance; and will make us set our faces 
against all open and avowed impieties ; which, methinks, should be 
considered a little by such as would be thought not to be wanting in 
this duty, and yet are often silent under the foulest dishonours done 
to religion, and its great Author: for tamely to hear God’s name and 
worship vilified by others, is no very good argument that we have 
been used to honour and reverence him, in good earnest, ourselves.’ 

The thought here is well founded, though it is carelessly and 
loosely brought out. The sentence, 4 our own praises, which we are 
constantly putting up, will be a spur to us towards procuring and 
promoting the divine glory in every other instance,’ is both negligent 
in language, and ambiguous in meaning, for ‘ our own praises,’ pro¬ 
perly signifies the praises of ourselves. Much better if he had said, 
c Those devout praises which we constantly offer up to the Almighty, 
will naturally prompt us to promote the divine glory in every other 
instance.’ 

< 4. It will, beyond all this, work in us a deep humility and con¬ 
sciousness of our own imperfections. Upon a frequent attention to 
God and his attributes, we shall easily discover our own weakness 
and emptiness; our swelling thoughts of ourselves will abate, and 
we shall see and feel that we are ‘ altogether lighter to be laid in the 
balance than vanity;’ and this is a lesson which, to the greatest part 
of mankind, is, I think, very well worth learning. We are naturally 
presumptuous and vain; full of ourselves, and regardless of every 
thing besides, especially when some little outward privileges dis¬ 
tinguish us from the rest of mankind ; then, it is odds, but we look 
into ourselves with great degrees of complacency, 4 and are wiser’ 


z-ECT. xxx.] SERMON OF BISHOP ATTERBURY’S. 


339 


(and better every way) ‘ in our own conceit, than seven men that can 
render a reason.’ Now nothing will contribute so much to the cure 
of this vanity, as a due attention to God’s excellences and perfections. 
By comparing these with those which we imagine belong to us, we 
shall learn, ‘not to think more highly of ourselves, than we ought 
to think of ourselves,’ but ‘ to think soberly;’ we shall find moresatis- 
faction in looking upwards, and humbling ourselves before our com¬ 
mon Creator, than in casting our eyes downward with scorn upon 
our fellow-creatures, and setting at nought any part of the work of 
his hands. The vast distance we are at from real and infinite worth, 
will astonish us so much, that we shall not be tempted to value our¬ 
selves upon these lesser degrees of pre-eminence, which custom or 
opinion, or some little accidental advantages, have given us over 
other men.’ 

Though the thought here also be just,>yet a like deficiency in ele¬ 
gance and beauty appears. The phrase, ‘ it is odds but we look into 
ourselves, with great degrees of complacency,’ is much too low and 
colloquial for a sermon—he might have said, ‘ we are likely,’ or ‘ we 
are prone,’ to look into ourselves.—‘Comparing these with those 
which we imagine belong to us,’ is also very careless style.—‘ By 
comparing these with the virtues and abilities which we ascribe to 
ourselves, we shall learn’—would have been purer and more correct. 

‘ 5. I shall mention but one use of it more, and it is this: that a 
conscientious praise of God will keep us back from all false and mean 
praise, ail fulsome and servile flatteries, such as are in use among 
men. Praising, as it is commonly managed, is nothing else but a 
trial of skill upon a man, how many good things we can possibly say 
of him. All the treasures of oratory 7 are ransacked, and all the fine 
things that ever were said, are heaped together for his sake ; and no 
matter whether it belongs to him or not; so there be but enough 
on’t; which is one deplorable instance, among a thousand, of the 
baseness of human nature, of its small regard to truth and justice 
to right or wrong, to what is or is not to be praised. But he who 
hath a deep sense of the excellences of God upon his heart will make 
a god of nothing besides. He will give every one his just enco¬ 
mium, honour where honour is due, and as much as is due, because 
it is his duty to do so; but the honour of God will suffer him to go no 
farther. Which rule, if it had been observed, a neighbouring prince 
(who now, God be thanked, needs flattery a great deal more than 
ever he did,) would have wanted a great deal of that incense which 
hath been offered up to him by his adorers.’ 

This head appears scarcely to deserve any place among the more 
important topics that naturally presented themselves on this subject; 
at least, it had much better have wanted the application which the 
author makes of his reasoning to the flatterers of Louis XIV.; and 
the thanks which he offers to God, for the affairs of that prince be¬ 
ing in so low a state, that he now needed flattery more than ever. 
This political satire is altogether out of place, and unworthy of the 
subject. 

One would be inclined to think, upon reviewing our author’s ar- 

30 


'340 CK11ICAL EXAMINATION, &c. [lect. xxx 

guments, that he has overlooked some topics, respecting the happy 
consequences of this duty, of fully as much importance as any 
that he has inserted. Particularly, he ought not to have omitted the 
happy tendency of praise and thanksgiving, to strengthen good dis¬ 
positions in the heart; to promote love to God, and imitation of those 
perfections which we adore; and to infuse a spirit of ardour and zeal 
into the whole of religion, as the service of our Benefactor. These 
are consequences which naturally follow from the proper perform¬ 
ance of this duty, and which ought not to have been omitted; 
as no opportunity should be lost of showing the good effect of de¬ 
votion on practical religion and moral virtue, and pointing out the 
necessary connexion of the one with the other. For certain¬ 
ly the great end of preaching is, to make men better in all the re¬ 
lations of life, and to promote that complete reformation of heart 
and conduct in which true Christianity consists. Our author, how¬ 
ever, upon the whole, is not deficient in such views of religion; 
for, in his general strain of preaching, as he is extremely pious, so 
he is, at the same time, practical and moral. 

His summing up of the whole argument, in the next paragraph, 
is elegant and beautiful; and such concluding views of the sub¬ 
ject are frequently very proper and useful: ‘ Upon these grounds 
doth the duty of praise stand, and these are the obligations that 
bind us to the performance of it. It is the end of our being, and 
the very rule and law of our nature; flowing from the two great’ 
fountains of human action, the understanding and the will, natu¬ 
rally, and almost necessarily. It is the most excellent part of our 
religious worship; enduring to eternity, after the rest shall be done 
away; and paid, even now, in the frankest manner, with the least 
regard to our own interest. It recommends itself to us by several 
peculiar properties and advantages; as it carries more'pleasure 
in it than all other kinds of devotion; as it enlarges and exalts the 
several powers of the mind; as it breeds in us an exquisite sense 
ot God s honour, and a willingness to promote it in the world • as it 
teaches us to be humble and lowly ourselves, and yet preserves us 
fi om base and sordid flattery, from bestowing mean and undue 
praises upon others/ 

After this, our author addresses himself to two classes of men the 
careless and the profane. His address to the careless is beautiful’and 
pathetic; that to the profane, is not so well executed, and is liable 
to some objection. Such addresses appear to me to be, on several 
occasions, very useful parts of a discourse. They prevailed much 
in the strain of preaching before the restoration; and perhaps, since 
that period, have been too much neglected. They afford an oppor¬ 
tunity of bringing home to the consciences of the audience, many 
things, which in the course of the sermon, were, perhaps, deliver- 
ed in the abstract. 

I shall not dwell on the conclusion of the sermon, which is chief- 
y employed in observations on the posture of public affairs at that 
time. Considered upon the whole, this discourse of Bishop Atter- 


x»ect. xxxi.] INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE. 


341 


bury’s is both useful and beautiful; though I have ventured to point 
out some defects in it. Seldom, or never, can we expect to meet 
with a composition of any kind, which is absolutely perfect in all its 
parts : and when we take into account the difficulties which I before 
showed to attend the eloquence of the pulpit, we have, perhaps, 
less reason to look for perfection in a sermon, than in any other 
composition. 


LECTURE XXXI. 


CONDUCT OF A DISCOURSE IN ALL ITS PARTS. 

INTRODUCTION, DIVISION, NARRATION, AND 
EXPLICATION. 

I have, in the four preceding lectures, considered what is pecu¬ 
liar to each of the three great fields of public speaking, popular as¬ 
semblies, the bar, and the pulpit. I am now to treat of what is com¬ 
mon to them all; of the conduct of a discourse or oration, in gene¬ 
ral. The previous view which I have given of the distinguishing spirit 
and character of different kinds of public speaking, was necessary 
for the proper application of the rules which I am about to deliver; 
and as I proceed, I shall further point out, how far any of these rules 
may have a particular respect to the bar, to the pulpit, or to popu¬ 
lar courts. 

On whatever subject any one intends to discourse, he will most 
commonly begin with some introduction, in order to prepare the 
minds of his hearers ; he will then state his subject, and explain the 
facts connected with it; he will employ arguments for establishing 
his own opinion, and overthrowing that of his antagonist; he may, 
perhaps, if there be room for it, endeavour to touch the passions of 
his audience; and after having said all he thinks proper, he will 
bring his discourse to a close by some peroration or conclusion. 
This being the natural train of speaking, the parts that compose a 
regular formal oration, are these six; first, the exordium or intro¬ 
duction; secondly, the state, and the division of the subject; third¬ 
ly, narration or explication; fourthly, the reasoning or arguments; 
fifthly, the pathetic part; and lastly, the conclusion. I do not mean 
that each of these must enter into every public discourse, or that 
they must enter always in this order. There is no reason for being 
so formal on every occasion; nay, it would often be a fault, and 
would render a discourse pedantic and stiff. There may be many 
excellent discourses in public, where several of these parts are alto¬ 
gether wanting; where the speaker, for instance, uses no introduc¬ 
tion, but enters directly on his subject; where he has no occasion 
either to divide or explain; but simply reasons on one side of the 
question, and then finishes. But as the parts which I have mention¬ 
ed are the natural constituent parts of a regular oration; and as in 
every discourse whatever, some of them must be found, itisneces- 





-342 INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE, [lect. xxm. 

sary to our present purpose, that I should treat of each of them dis- 
tinctly. 

I begin, of course, with the exordium or introduction. This is 
manifestly common to all the three kinds of public speaking. It is 
not a rhetorical invention. It is founded upon nature, and suggest¬ 
ed by common sense. When one is going to counsel another; 
when he takes upon him to instruct, or to reprove, prudence will ge¬ 
nerally direct him not to do it abruptly, but t.o use some preparation ; 
to begin with somewhat that may incline the persons to whom he 
addresses himself, to judge favourably of what he is about to say, 
and may dispose them to such a train of thought as will forward 
and assist the purpose which he has in view. This is, or ought to be, 
the main scope of an introduction. Accordingly,Cicero and Quin¬ 
tilian mention three ends, to one or other of which it should be sub¬ 
servient: f Reddere auditores benevolos, attentos, dociles.’ 

First, to conciliate the good will of the hearers; to render them 
benevolent, or well-affected to the speaker and to the subject. To¬ 
pics for this purpose may, in causes at the bar, be sometimes taken 
from the particular situation of the speaker himself, or of his client, 
or from the character or behaviour of his antagonists, contrasted with 
his own ; on other occasions, from the nature of the subject, as 
closely connected with the interest of the hearers: and, in general, 
from the modesty and good intention with which the speaker enters 
upon his subject. The second end of an introduction is, to raise 
the attention of the hearers ; which may be effected, by giving them 
some hints of the importance, dignity, or novelty of the subject; 
or some favourable view of the clearness and precision with which 
we are to treat it; and of the brevity with which we are to dis¬ 
course. The third end, is to render the hearers docile, or open to 
persuasion ; for which end, we must begin with studying to remove 
any particular prepossessions they may have contracted against the 
cause, or side of the argument, which we espouse. 

Some one of these ends should be proposed by every introduc¬ 
tion. When there is no occasion for aiming at any of them ; when 
we are already secure of the good will, the attention, and the docili¬ 
ty of the audience, as may often be the case, formal introductions 
may,without any prejudice, be omitted. And indeed, when they serve 
for no purpose but mere ostentation, they had, for the most part, 
better be omitted ; unless as far as respect to the audience makes it 
decent, that a speaker should not break in upon them too abruptly, 
but by a short exordium prepare them for what he is going to say. ? 
Demosthenes’ introductions are always short and simple; Cicero’s 
are fuller and more artful. 

The ancient critics distinguished two kinds of introductions, which 
they call ‘ principium,’ and ‘insinuation ‘ Principium’ is, where 
the orator plainly and directly professes his aim in speaking. ‘ Insin¬ 
uations, where a larger compass must be taken; and where, presuming 
the disposition of the audience to be much against the orator, he 
must gradually reconcile them to hearing him, before he plainly dis¬ 
covers the point which he has in view. 


xect. xxxi.] INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE. 


343 


Of this latter sort of introduction, we have an admirable instance 
in Cicero’s second oration against Rullus. This Rullus was tribune 
of the people, and had proposed an Agrarian law; the purpose of 
which was to create a decemvirate, or len commissioners, with ab¬ 
solute power for five years,over all the lands conquered by the re¬ 
public, in order to divide them among the citizens. Such laws had 
often been proposed by factious magistrates, and were always greedi¬ 
ly received by the people. Cicero is speaking to the people; he 
had lately been made consul by their interest; and his first attempt 
is to make them reject this law. The subject was extremely deli¬ 
cate, and required much art. He begins with acknowledging all 
the favours which he had received from the people, in preference 
to the nobility He professes himself the creature of their power, 
and of all men the most engaged to promote their interest. He de¬ 
clares, that he held himself to be the consul of the people; and 
that he would always glory in preserving the character of a popular 
magistrate. But to be popular, he observes, is an ambiguous word. 
He understood it to import a steady attachment to the real interest 
of the people, to their liberty, their ease, and their peace; but by 
some, he saw it was abused, and made a cover to their own selfish 
and ambitious designs. In this manner, he begins to draw gradually 
nearer to his purpose of attacking the proposal of Rullus ; but still 
with great management and reserve. He protests, that he is far 
from being an enemy to Agrarian law’s; he gives the highest 
praises to the Gracchi, those zealous patrons of the people; and as¬ 
sures them, that when he first heard of Rullus’s law, he had resolv¬ 
ed to support it if he found it for their interest; but that, upon ex¬ 
amining it, he found it calculated to establish a dominion that was 
inconsistent with liberty, and to aggrandize a few men at the expense 
of the public : and then terminates his exordium, with telling them 
that he is going to give his reasons for being of this opinion; but 
that if his reasons shall not satisfy them, he will give up his own opin¬ 
ion and embrace theirs. In all this there was great art. His elo¬ 
quence produced the intended effect; and the people, with one 
voice, rejected this Agrarian law. 

Having given these general views of the nature and end of an in¬ 
troduction, I proceed to lay down some rules for the proper compo¬ 
sition of it. These are the more necessary, as this is a part of the 
discourse which requires no small care. It is always of importance 
to begin well; to make a favourable impression at first setting out; 
when the minds of the hearers, vacant as yet and free, are most dis¬ 
posed to receive any impression easily. I must add, too, that a good 
introduction is often found to be extremely difficult. Few parts of 
the discourse give the composer more trouble, or are attended with 
more nicety in the execution. 

The first rule is, that the introduction should be easy and natural. 
The subject must always suggest it. It must appear, as Cicero beau¬ 
tifully expresses it, ‘Effloruisse penitus ex re de qua turn agitur.’* 

* ‘ To have sprung up, of its own accord, from the matter which is under considera¬ 
tion.’ 



344 


INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE, [lect. xxxi. 

It is too common a fault in introductions, that they are taken from 
some common-place topic, which has no peculiar relation to the 
subject in hand ; by which means they stand apart, like pieces de¬ 
tached from the rest of the discourse. Of this kind are Sallust’s in¬ 
troductions, prefixed to his Catilinarian and Jugurthine wars. They 
might as well have been introductions to any other history, or to any 
other treatise whatever: and, therefore, though elegant in them¬ 
selves, they must be considered as blemishes in the work, from want 
of due connexion with it. Cicero, though abundantly correct in 
this particular in his orations, yet is not so in his other works. It ap¬ 
pears from a letter of his to Atticus, (L. xvi. 6.) that it was his cus¬ 
tom to prepare, at hisJeisure, a collection of different introductions 
or prefaces, ready to be prefixed to any work that he might after¬ 
wards publish. In consequence of this strange method of composing, 
it happened to him, to employ the same introduction twice without 
remembering it; prefixing it to two different works. Upon Atticus 
informing him of this, he acknowledges the mistake, and sends him 
a new introduction. 

In order to render introductions natural and easy, it is, in my opin¬ 
ion, a good rule, that they should not be planned till after one has 
meditated in his own mind the substance of his discourse. Then, 
and not till then, he should begin to think of some proper and na¬ 
tural introduction. By taking a contrary course, and labouring in 
the first place on an introduction, every one who is accustomed to 
composition will often find, that either he is led to lay hold of some 
common-place topic, or that, instead of the introduction being ac¬ 
commodated to the discourse, he is obliged to accommodate the 
whole discourse to the introduction which he had previously writ¬ 
ten. Cicero makes this remark; though, as we have seen, his 
practice was not always conformable to his own rule. 4 Omnibus 
rebus consideratis, turn denique id, quod primum est dicendum, 
postremum soleo cogitare, quo utar exordio. Nam si quando id 
primum invenire volui, nullum mihi occurrit nisi aut exile, aut nuga- 
torium, aut vulgare. 5 * After the mind has been once warmed and 
put in train, by close meditation on the subject, materials for the 
preface will then suggest themselves much more readily. 

In the second place, in an introduction, correctness should be 
carefully studied in the expression. This is requisite on account 
of the situation of the hearers. They are then more disposed 
to criticise than at any other period; they are, as yet, unoccupied 
with the subject or the arguments; their attention is wholly direct¬ 
ed to the speaker’s style and manner. Something must be done 
therefore, to prepossess them in his favour; though, for the same 
reasons, too much art must be avoided : for it will be more easily de¬ 
tected at that time than afterwards, and will derogate from persua- 

* ‘ When I have planned and digested all the materials of niv discourse, it is my cus¬ 
tom to think, in the last place, of the introduction with which 1 am to begin. For if at any 
time I have endeavoured to invent an introduction first, nothing has ever occurred to 
me for that purpose, but what was trifling, nugatory, and vulgar.’ 



lect. xxxi.] INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE. 


345 


sion in all that follows. A correct plainness, and elegant simpli¬ 
city, is the proper character of an introduction : 4 Ut videamur,’ says 
Quintilian, ‘ accurate non callide dicere.’ 

In the third place, modesty is another character which it must carry. 
All appearances of modesty are favourable and prepossessing. If 
the orator set out with an air of arrogance and ostentation, the self- 
love and pride of th* hearers will be presently awakened, and will 
follow him with a very suspicious eye throughout all his progress. 
His modesty should discover itself not only in his expressions at the 
beginning, but in his whole manner; in his looks, in his gestures, in 
the tone of his voice. Every auditory take in good part those marks 
of respect and awe, which are paid to them by one who addresses 
them. Indeed,the modesty of an introduction should never betray 
any thing mean or abject. It is always of great use to an orator, 
that together with modesty and deference to his hearers, he should 
show a certain sense of dignity, arising from a persuasion of the 
justice or importance of the subject on which he is to speak. 

The modesty of an introduction requires, that it promise not too 
much. c Non fumum ex fulgore, sed ex fumo dare lucem.’* This 
certainly is the general rule, that an orator should not put forth all 
his strength at the beginning, but should rise and grow upon us, as 
his discourse advances. There are cases, however, in which it is 
allowable for him to set out from the first in a high and bold tone: 
as, for instance, when he rises to defend some cause which has been 
much run down, and decried by the public. Too modest a begin¬ 
ning might be then like a confession of guilt. By the boldness and 
strength of his exordium, he must endeavour to stem the tide that 
is against him, and to remove prejudices, by encountering them 
without fear. In subjects, too,of a declamatory nature, and in ser¬ 
mons, where the subject is striking, a magnificent introduction has 
sometimes a good effect, if it be properly supported in the sequel. 
Thus Bishop Atterbury, in beginning an eloquent sermon, preach¬ 
ed on the 30th of January, the anniversary of what is called King 
Charles’s Martyrdom, sets out in this pompous manner: ‘This is a 
day of trouble, of rebuke, and of blasphemy; distinguished in the 
calendar of our church, and the annals of our nation, by the suffer¬ 
ings of an excellent prince, who fell a sacrifice to the rage of his re¬ 
bellious subjects; and, by his fall, derived infamy, misery, and guilt 
on them, and their sinful posterity.’ Bossuet, Flechier, and the 
other celebrated French preachers, very often begin their discour¬ 
ses with laboured and sublime introductions. These raise atten¬ 
tion, and throw a lustre on the subject; but let every speaker be 
much on his guard against striking a higher note at the beginning, 
than he is able to keep up in his progress. 


* He does not lavish at a blaze his fire, 

Sudden to glare, and then in smoke expire; 

But rises from a cloud of smoke to light, 

And pours his specious miracles to sight. 

IIor. Ars. Poet. Francis. 


44 



346 


INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE, [lect.xxxi. 

In the fourth place, an introduction should usually be carried on 
in the calm manner. 1 his is seldom the place for vehemence and 
passion. Emotions must rise as the discourse advances. The minds 
of the hearers must be gradually prepared, before the speaker can 
venture on strong and passionate sentiments. The exceptions to 
this rule are, when the subject is such, that the very mention of it 
naturally awakens some passionate emotion ; or when the unexpect¬ 
ed presence of some person or object, in a popular assembly, inflames 
the speaker, and makes him break forth with unusual warmth. Ei¬ 
ther of these will justify what is called the Exordium ab abrupto. 
Thus the appearance of Catiline in the senate renders the vehement 
beginning of Cicero’s first oration against him very natural and 
proper: ‘ Quousque tandem, Catilina, abutere patientia nostra?’ 
And thus Bishop Atterbury, in preaching from this text, 4 Blessed is 
he, whosoever shall not be offended in me,’ ventures on breaking 
forth with this bold exordium: 4 And can any man then be offended 
in thee, blessed Jesus?’ which address to our Saviour he continues 
ior a page or two, till he enters on the division of his subject. But 
such introductions as these should be hazarded by very few, as they 
promise so much vehemence and unction through the rest of the dis¬ 
course, that it is very difficult to fulfil the expectations of the hearers. 

At the same time, though the introduction is not the place in 
which warm emotions are usually to be attempted, yet I must 
take notice, that it ought to prepare the way for such as are de¬ 
signed to be raised in subsequent parts of the discourse. The 
orator should, in the beginning, turn the minds of his hearers 
towards those sentiments and feelings which he seeks to awaken 
in the course of his speech. According, for instance, as it is 
compassion, or indignation, or contempt, on which his discourse 
is to rest, he ought to sow the seeds of these in his introduction* 
he ought to begin with breathing that spirit which he means to in¬ 
spire. Much of the orator’s art and ability is shown, in thus strik- 
ing properly at the commencement, the key note, if we may so 
express it, of the rest of his oration. 

In the fifth place, it is a rule in introductions, not to anticipate 
any material part of the subject. When topics, or arguments 
which are afterwards to be enlarged upon, are hinted at, and, in 
part, brought forth in the introduction, they lose the grace of 
novelty upon their second appearance. The impression intended 
to be made by any capital thought, is always made with the 
greatest advantage, when it is made entire, and in its proper place. 

In the last place, the introduction ought to be proportioned* 
both m length and in kind, to the discourse that is to follow* 
in length, as nothing can be more absurd than to erect a very 
great portico before a small building; and in kind, as it is no less 
absurd to overcharge, with superb ornaments, the portico of a 
plain dwelling-house, or to make the entrance to a monument as 
gay as that to an arbour. Common sense directs that every part of 
a discourse should be suited to the strain and spirit of the whole. 


IhEct. xxxi.] INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE. 


347 


These are the principal rules that relate to introductions. They 
are adapted, in a great measure,equally, to discourses of all kinds. 
In pleadings at the bar, or speeches in public assemblies, particular 
care must be taken not to employ any introduction of that kind, 
which the adverse party may lay hold of, and turn to his advantage. 
To this inconvenience all those introductions are exposed, which 
are taken from general and common-place topics; and it never 
fails to give an adversary a considerable triumph, if, by giving a 
small turn to something we had said in our exordium, he can ap- 
i pear to convert, to his own favour, the principles with which we 
had set out, in beginning our attack upon him. In the case of re¬ 
plies, Quintilian makes an observation which is very worthy of no¬ 
tice; that introductions, drawn from something that has been said 
in the course of the debate, have always a peculiar grace; and the 
reason he gives for it is just and sensible: 6 Multum gratise exordio 
est, quod ab actione diversae partis materiam trahit; hoc ipso, quod 
non compositum domi, sed ibi atque e re natum; et facilitate famam 
ingenii auget; et facie simplicis, sumptique e proximo sermonis, 
fidem quoque acquirit; adeo, ut etiamsi relique soripta atque ela- 
borata sint, tamen videatur tota extemporalis oratio, cujus initium 
nihil preparatum habuisse manifestum est.’* 

In sermons, such a practice as this cannot take place; and, in¬ 
deed, in composing sermons, few things are more difficult than to 
remove an appearance of stiffness from an introduction, when a 
formal one is used. The French preachers, as I before observed, 
are often very splendid and lively in their introductions; but, 
among us, attempts of this kind are not always so successful. 
When long introductions are formed upon some common-place topic, 
as the desire of happiness being natural to man, or the like, they 
never fail of being tedious. Variety should be studied in this part 
of composition as much as possible; often it may be proper to be¬ 
gin without any introduction at all, unless, perhaps, one or two 
sentences. Explanatory introductions from the context, are the 
most simple of any, and frequently the best that can be used; but 
as they are in hazard of becoming dry, they should never be long. 
A historical introduction has, generally, a happy effect to rouse at¬ 
tention, when one can lay hold upon some rioted fact that is con¬ 
nected with the text or the discourse, and, by a proper illustration 
of it, open the way to the subject that is to be treated of. 

After the introduction, what commonly comes next in order, 
is the proposition, or enunciation of the subject; concerning 
which there is nothing to be said, but that it should be as clear and 

* * An introduction, which is founded upon the pleading of the opposite party, is 
extremely graceful ; for this reason, that it appears not to have been meditated at 
home, but to have taken rise from the business, and to have been composed on the 
spot Hence, it gives to the speaker the reputation of a quick invention, and adds 
i weight likewise to his discourse, as artless and unlaboured : insomuch, that though all 
the rest of his oration should be studied and written, yet the whole discourse has the 
appearance of being extemporary, as it is evident that the introduction to it was unpre* 
meditated.’ 

3D 



348 INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE, [lect. xxxi, 

distinct as possible, and expressed in few and plain words, with¬ 
out the least affectation. To this generally succeeds the division, or 
the laving down the method of the discourse ; on which it is neces¬ 
sary to make some observations. I do not mean, that in every 
discourse, a formal division or distribution of it into parts, is requi¬ 
site. There are many occasions of public speaking, when this is 
neither requisite nor would be proper; when the discourse, perhaps, 
is to be short, or only one point is to be treated of; or when the 
speaker does not choose to warn his hearers of the method he is to 
follow, or of the conclusion to which he seeks to bring them. Order 
of one kind or other is, indeed, essential to every good discourse; 
that is, every thing should be so arranged, as that what goes before 
may give light and force to what follows. But this may be accom¬ 
plished by means of a concealed method. What we call division 

is, when the method is propounded in form to the hearers. 

The discourse in which this sort of division most commonly 
takes place, is a sermon; and a question has been moved, whether 
this method of laying down heads, as it is called, be the best 
method of preaching. A very able judge, the Archbishop of Cam- 
bray, in his Dialogues on Eloquence, declares strongly against 

it. He observes, that it is a modern invention; that it was never 
practised by the Fathers of the church: and, what is certainly 
true, that it took its rise from the schoolmen, when metaphysics 
began to be introduced into preaching. He is of opinion, that it 
renders a sermon stiff; that it breaks the unity of the discourse; 
and that, by the natural connexion of one part with another, the at¬ 
tention of the hearers would be carried along the whole with more 
advantage. 

But notwithstanding his authority and his arguments, I cannot 
help being of opinion, that the present method of dividing a ser¬ 
mon into heads, ought not to be laid aside. Established practice 
has now given it so much weight, that, were there nothing more 
in its favour, it would be dangerous for any preacher to deviate so 
far from the common track. But the practice itself has also, in 
my judgment, much reason on its side. If formal partitions give a 
sermon less of the oratorical appearance, they render it, however, 
more clear, more easily apprehended, and, of course, more instruc¬ 
tive to the bulk of hearers, which is always the main object to be 
kept in view. The heads of a sermon are great assistances to the 
memory and recollection of a hearer. They serve also to fix his 
attention. They enable him more easily to keep pace with the 
progress of the discourse; they give him pauses and resting places, 
where he can reflect on what has been said, and look forward to 
what is to follow. They are attended with this advantage too, 
that they give the audience the opportunity of knowing, before¬ 
hand, when they are to be released from the fatigue of attention, 
and thereby make them follow the speaker more patiently. ‘ Re- 
ficit audientem, 5 says Quintilian, taking notice of this very advan¬ 
tage of divisions in other discourses, 4 Reficit audientem certo sin- 


LECT. XXXI.] DIVISION OF A DISCOURSE. 


349 


gularum partium fine; non aliter quam facientibus iter, multum 
detrahunt fatigationis notata spatia inscriptis lapidibus: nam et ex- 
hausti laboris nosse mensuram voluptati est; et hortatur ad reliqua 
fortius exequenda, scire quantum supersit.’* With regard to break¬ 
ing the unity of a discourse, I cannot be of opinion that there 
arises, from that quarter, any argument against the method I am 
defending. It the unity be broken, it is to the nature of the heads, 
or topics of which the speaker treats, that this is to be imputed; 
not to his laying them down in form. On the contrary, if his heads 
be well chosen, his marking them out, and distinguishing them, 
m place of impairing the unity of the whole, renders it more con¬ 
spicuous and complete; by showing how all the parts of a discourse 
hang upon one another, and tend to one point. 

In a sermon, or in a pleading, or any discourse, where division is 
proper to be used, the most material rules are, 

First, That the several parts into which the subject is divided 
be really distinct from one another; that is, that no one include 
another. It were a very absurd division, for instance, if one should 
propose to treat, first, of the advantages of virtue, and next, of 
those of justice or temperance; because, the first head evidently 
comprehends the second, as a genus does the species; which me¬ 
thod of proceeding involves the subject in indistinctness and disorder. 

Secondly, In division, we must take care to follow the order of 
nature; beginning with the simplest points, such as are easiest ap¬ 
prehended, and necessary to be first discussed; and proceeding 
thence to those which are built upon the former, and which suppose 
them to be known. We must divide the subject into those parts, 
into which most easily and naturally it is resolved; that it may 
seem to split itself, and not to be violently torn asunder: ‘Divi- 
dere/ as is commonly said, ‘non frangere.’ 

Thirdly, The several members of a division ought to exhaust the 
subject; otherwise we do not make a complete division ; we exhi¬ 
bit the subject by pieces and corners only, without giving any such 
plan as displays the whole. 

Fourthly, The terms in which our partitions are expressed, 
should be as concise as possible. Avoid all circumlocution here. 
Admit not a single word but what is necessary. Precision is to be 
studied, above all things, in laying down a method. It is this which 
chiefly makes a division appear neat and elegant; when the several 
heads are propounded in the clearest, most expressive, and, at the 
same time, the fewest words possible. This never fails to strike 
the hearers- agreeably; and is, at the same time, of great conse¬ 
quence towards making the divisions be more easily remembered. 

Fifthly, Avoid an unnecessary multiplication of heads. To split 
a subject into a great many minute parts, by divisions and subdivi- 


* ‘ The conclusion of each head is a relief to the hearers; just as, upon a journey, 
the mile-stones which are set up on the road, serve to diminish the traveller’s fatigue. 
For we axe always pleased with seeing our labour begin to lessen ; and, by calculating 
how much remains, are stirred up to 6nish our task more cheerfully.’ 



350 


NARRATION AND EXPLICATION, [lect. xxxj, 

sions without end, has always a bad effect in speaking. It may be 
proper in a logical treatise; but it makes an oration appear hard 
and dry, and unnecessarily fatigues the memory. In a sermon, 
there may be from three to five or six heads, including subdivi¬ 
sions; seldom should there be more. 

In a sermon, or in pleading at the bar, few things are of great¬ 
er consequence, than a proper or happy division. It should be studi¬ 
ed with much accuracy and care; for if one take a wrong method at 
first setting out, it will lead him astray in all that follows. It will 
render the whole discourse either perplexed or languid ; and though 
the hearers may not be able to tell where the fault or disorder lies, 
they will be sensible there is a disorder somewhere, and find them¬ 
selves little affected by what is spoken. The French writers of ser¬ 
mons study neatness and elegance in laying down their heads, much 
more than the English do; whose distributions, though sensible and 
just, yet are often inartificial and verbose. Among the French, 
however, too much quaintness appears in their divisions, with an 
affectation of always setting out either with two, or with three, 
general heads of discourse. A division of Massillon's on this text, 

‘It is finished,’ has been much extolled by the French critics:_ 

‘This imports,’ says the preacher, ‘the consummation, first, of jus¬ 
tice on the part of God; secondly, of wickedness on the part of 
men; thirdly, of love on the part of Christ. ’ This also of Bourda- 
loue’s has been much praised,from these words: ‘My peace I give 
unto you.’ ‘Peace,’ says he, ‘first to the understanding, by sub¬ 
mission to faith; secondly, to the heart, by submission to the law.’ 

The next constituent part of a discourse, which I mentioned 
was narration or explication. I put these two together, both be¬ 
cause they fall nearly under the same rules, and because they com¬ 
monly answer the same purpose; serving to illustrate the cause or 
the subject of which the orator treats, before he proceeds to annie 
either on one side or other; or to make any attempt for interesting 
the passions of the hearers. 

In pleadings at the bar, narration is often a very important part 
of the discourse, and requires to be particularly attended to. Be¬ 
sides its being in any case no easy matter to relate with grace and 
propriety; there is in narrations at the bar, a peculiar difficulty. The 
pleader must say nothing but what is true; and, at the same time, 
he must avoid saying any thing that will hurt his cause. The facts 
which he relates are to be the ground-work of all his future reason¬ 
ing. To recount them so as to keep strictly within the bounds of 
truth, and yet to present them under the colours most favourable to 
his cause; to place, in the most striking light, every circumstance 
which is to his advantage, and to soften and weaken such as make 
against him, demand no small exertion of skill and dexterity. He 
must always remember, that if he discovers too much art, he defeats 
his own purpose, and creates a distrust of his sincerity. Quintilian 
Ve n^^ >r °f >er directs, • Effugienda in hac praecipue parte, omnis 
calliditatis suspicio; neque enim se usquam magis custodit judex* 


lect.xxxi.] NARRATION AND EXPLICATION. 


351 


quam cum narrat orator: nihil turn videatur fictum; nihil sollici- 
tum ; omnia potius a causa, quam ab oratore, profecta videantur.’* 

To be clear and distinct, to be probable, and to be concise, are 
the qualities which critics chiefly require in narration; each of 
which carries sufficiently the evidence of its importance. Distinct¬ 
ness belongs to the whole train of the discourse, but is especially 
requisite in narration, which ought to throw light on all that fol¬ 
lows. A fact, or a single circumstance left in obscurity, and mis¬ 
apprehended by the judge, may destroy the effect of all the argu¬ 
ment and reasoning which the speaker employs. If his narration be 
improbable, the judge will not regard it; and if it be tedious and 
diffuse, he will be tired of it, and forget it. In order to produce dis¬ 
tinctness, besides the study of the general rules of perspicuity which 
were formerly given, narration requires a particular attention to as¬ 
certain clearly the names, the dates, the places, and every other ma¬ 
terial circumstance of the facts recounted. In order to be probable 
in narration, it is material to enter into the characters of the per¬ 
sons of whom we speak, and to show, that their actions proceeded 
from such motives as are natural, and likely to gain belief. In order 
to be as concise as the subject will admit, it is necessary to throw 
out all superfluous circumstances; the rejection of which will like¬ 
wise tend to make our narration more forcible, and more clear. 

Cicero is very remarkable for his talent of narration; and from 
the examples in his orations much may be learned. The narration, 
for instance, in the celebrated oration pro Milone, has been often 
and justly admired. His scope is to show, that though in fact Clo- 
dius was killed by Milo or his servants, yet that it was only in self- 
defence; and that the design had been laid, not by Milo against 
Clodius, but by Clodius against Milo’s life. Ail the circumstances 
for rendering this probable are painted with wonderful art. In re¬ 
lating the manner of Milo’s setting out from Rome, he gives the 
most natural description of a family excursion to the country, under 
which it was impossible that any bloody design could be conceal¬ 
ed. ‘ He remained,’ says he, ‘ in the senate house that day, till all 
the business was over. He came home, changed his clothes deliberate¬ 
ly, and waited for some time, till his wife had got all her things ready 
for going with him in his carriage to the country. He did not set 
out, till such time as Clodius might easily have been in Rome, if he 
had not been lying in wait for Milo by the way. By and by, Clodius 
met him on the road, on horse-back, like a man prepared for action; 
no carriage, not his wife, as was usual, nor any family equipage 
along with him: whilst Milo, who is supposed to be meditating 
slaughter and assassination, is travelling in a carriage with his wife, 
wrapped up in his cloak, embarrassed with baggage, and attended 


* ‘ In this part of discourse, the speaker must be very careful to shun every appear¬ 
ance of art and cunning. For there is no time at which the judge is more upon his 
guard, than when the pleader is relating facts. Let nothing then seem feigned : noth¬ 
ing anxiously concealed. Let all that is said, appear to arise from the cause itself, and 
not to be the work of the orator.’ 



352 


NARRATION AND EXPLICATION, [lect. xxxr. 


by a great train of women-servants, and boys.’ He goes on describ¬ 
ing the rencounter that followed; Clodius’s servants attacking those 
of Milo, and killing the driver of his carriage; Milo jumping out, 
throwing off his cloak, and making the best defence he could, while 
Clodius’s servants endeavoured to surround him: and then con¬ 
cludes his narration with a very delicate and happy stroke. He 
does not say in plain words, that Milo’s servants killed Clodius, but 
that 4 in the midst of the tumult, Milo’s servants, without the or¬ 
ders, without the knowledge, without the presence of their master, 
did what every master would have wished his servants, in like con¬ 
juncture, to have done.’* 

In sermons, where there is seldom any occasion for narration, 
explication of the subject to be discoursed on, comes in the place of 
narration at the bar, and is to be taken up much on the same tone; 
that is, it must be concise, clear, and distinct: and in a style correct 
and elegant, rather than highly adorned. To explain the doctrine 
of the text with propriety; to give a full and perspicuous account of 
the nature of that virtue or duty which forms the subject of the dis¬ 
course, is properly the didactic part of preaching ; on the right exe¬ 
cution of which much depends for all that comes afterwards in the 
way of persuasion. The great art of succeeding in it, is to meditate 
profoundly on the subject, so as to be able to place it in a clear and 
strong point of view'. Consider what light other passages of scrip¬ 
ture throw upon it; consider whether it be a subject nearly related 
to some other from which it is proper to distinguish it; consider 
whether it can be illustrated to advantage by comparing it with, or 
opposing it to some other thing; by inquiring into causes, or trac¬ 
ing effects; by pointing out examples, or appealing to the feelings 
of the hearers; that thus, a definite, precise, circumstantial view 
may be afforded of the doctrine to be inculcated. Let the preacher 
be persuaded, that by such distinct and apt illustrations of the 
known truths of religion,he may both display great merit in the 
way of composition, and, what he ought to consider as far more va¬ 
luable, render his discourses weighty, instructive, and useful. 


‘ Milo > in senatu fuisset eo die, quoad senatus dimissus est, domum venit. 
Calceos et vestiinenta mutavit; paulisper, dum se uxor (ut fit) comparat, comraoratus 
est; demde profectus est, id temporis cum jam Clodius, si quidem eo die Romam ven- 
turus erat, redire potuisset. Obviam fit ei Clodius expeditus, in equo, nulla rheda nul- 
lis impedimentis, nullis Gratis comitibus, ut solebat; sine uxore, quod nunquam fere. 
Cum hie insidiatoi, qui iter illud ad csedem faciendam apparfisset, cum uxore veheretur 
m rheda, penulatus, vulgi magno impedimento, ac muli&bri et dclicato ancillarum pu- 
erorumque comitatu. Fit obviam Clodio ante fundum ejus, hora fere undecima aut non 
multo secus. Statim complures cum telis in hunc faciunt de loco superiore impetum 
adversi rhedarium occidunt; efim autem hie de rheda, rejecta penula desiluisset seque 
acr. ammo defenderet, illi qui erant cum Clodio, gladiis eductis, partim recurr’ere ad 
rhedam, ut a tergo Milonem adorirentur ; partim, quod hunc jam intcrfectum puta- 
rent, caedere incipmnt ejus servos qui post erant; ex quibus qui animo fideli in domi- 
num et praesenti fuerunt, partim occisi sunt; partim cum ad rhedam pugnare viderent 
et dommo succurrere prohiberentur, Milonemque occisuin etiam ex ipso Clodio audi- 
rent, etita esse putarent, fecerunt id servi Milonis,(dicam enim non derivandi criminis 
causa, sed ut factum est) neque imperante, neque sciente, neque prtesente domino 
quod suos quisque servos in tali re facere voluisset.’ 




( m a ) 


QUESTIONS, 


In the four preceding lectures, what 
lias been considered; and of what is our 
author now to treat ? For what was the 
previous view given, necessary; and in 
proceeding, what shall be pointed out? 
On whatever subject any one intends 
to discourse, what order will he pursue? 
This being the natural train of speak¬ 
ing, what six parts compose a regular 
formal oration ? What is here not 
meant; and why not ? There may be 
many excellent discourses before the 
public, without what ? Why then is it 
necessary that each of them should be 
treated of distinctly ? With what, does 
our author begin ; and of this, what is 
observed ? How is this remark illustra¬ 
ted? Of this, what is remarked? To 
conciliate the good will of the hearers, 
and to render them benevolent, whence 
may topics in causes at the bar be 
drawn ? What is the second end of an 
introduction ; and how may this be ef¬ 
fected? What is the third end, and for 
this purpose, with what must we begin ? 
When may formal introductions be 
omitted; and what remark follows? 
Of Demosthenes’ and Cicero’s introduc¬ 
tions, what is observed? What two 
Kinds of introductions did the ancient 
critics distinguish ; and what is said of 
them ? Of this latter sort of introduc¬ 
tion, in what oration have we an admi¬ 
rable instance ? Who was Rullus, and 
what did he propose? Of such laws, 
what is observed? What is here said of 
Cicero; and in what manner does he 
introduce this difficult subject ? What 
evidence does he give that he is not an 
enemy to Agrarian laws ? In all this, 
there is what; and what was the con¬ 
sequence ? Having given this general 
view of the nature arid end of an in¬ 
troduction, to what does our author 
proceed ? Why are these the more ne¬ 
cessary ? What is always of import¬ 
ance; and what remark is added? 
W'hat is the first rule given ? What 
must always suggest it; and what says 
Cicero? In introductions, what is too 
common a fault ? What introductions 
are of this kind ? What is said of them; 
and what follows ? What is related of 
Cicero’s introductions; and of his man¬ 
ner of preparing them ? Of this strange 
method, what was once a consequence ? 
In order to render an introduction inte¬ 
resting, what is a good rule ? What 
will be the consequence of taking a con¬ 


trary course? What remark is made 
by Cicero ? In the second place, in an 
introduction, what should be carefully 
studied ? What is then the situation of 
the hearers ? Why, at the same time, 
must too much art be avoided? What 
is the proper character of an introduc¬ 
tion ? In the third place, why is mo¬ 
desty requisite in an introduction ? How 
should his modesty discover itself; and 
why ? What should the modesty of an 
introduction never betray ; and what is 
of great use to an orator ? What does 
the modesty of an introduction require ? 
What says Horace ? What is the gene¬ 
ral rule? What exception is there to 
this rule ? What might too modest a 
beginning, then, be like ? By the bold¬ 
ness and strength of his exordium, 
what must he endeavour to do ? Where, 
also, has a magnificent introduction, 
sometimes a good effect ? What exam¬ 
ple is given from a sermon of Bishop 
Atterbury’s? How do the celebrated 
French writers often begin their dis¬ 
courses ? Of these, what is the effect; 
but against what, must every speaker 
be much on his guard? In the fourth 
place, in what manner should an in¬ 
troduction usually be carried on ? Why 
is this direction given ? What are the 
exceptions to this rule ? What will 
either of these justify ? What instances 
are given ? Why should such introduc¬ 
tions be hazarded by very few ? Of the 
introduction, what is further noticed? 
In the beginning, what should the ora¬ 
tor do ? How is this remark illustrated? 
How is much of the orator’s art shown? 
What, in the fifth place, is a rule in 
introductions ? How is this rule fully il¬ 
lustrated ? In the last place, to what 
ought the introduction be proportioned; 
and of this direction, what illustration 
is given ? What does common sense di¬ 
rect? To what are these rules adapted? 
In pleadings at the bar, or speeches in 
public assemblies, about what must 
particular care be taken? To this in¬ 
convenience, what introductions are ex¬ 
posed ; what never fails to give an ad¬ 
versary considerable triumph ? In the 
case of replies, what observation does 
Quintilian make? What reason does 
he assign for this ? 

Of introductions to sermons, what is 
observed? Of the French preachers, 
what was before remarked ? When are 
introductions always tedious? What 



352 b 


QUESTIONS. 


£lect. xxxi. 


should be studied in this part of com¬ 
position as much as possible; and what 
may often be proper ? Of explanatory 
introductions from the context, what, is 
remarked ? When has a historical in¬ 
troduction a happy effect? What comes 
next in order after the introduction? 
What only is to be said concerning' it ? 
To this, what generally succeeds ? 
What does our author here not mean ? 
How is this remark illustrated ? What 
is essential to every good discourse ? 
How may this be accomplished ? What 
is division in discourse? In what dis¬ 
course does this sort of division most 
commonly take place ; and what ques¬ 
tion has been moved? What is the 
opinion of the Archbishop of Cambray ? 
Of it, what does he observe ? W T hat 
effect, in his opinion, has it ? Notwith¬ 
standing his authority and arguments, 
what does our author think ; and why? 
What reason has the practice itself, on 
its side? What advantages result to 
the hearers, from the division of a ser¬ 
mon into heads ? On this subject, what 
says Quintilian ? With regard to break¬ 
ing the unity of a discourse, what does 
our author observe ? On the contrary, 
if the heads be well chosen, what is 
their effect ? In any discourse, where 
division is proper, what is the first rule 
to be observed ? How is this rule illus¬ 
trated ? Secondly, in division, what or¬ 
der must we follow ? Into what parts 
must we divide the subject? Thirdly, 
what should the several members of a 
division do; and why? In the fourth 
place, of the terms in which our parti¬ 
tions are expressed, what is observed ; 
and what remarks follow ? What is it 
which chiefly makes the divisions of a 
discourse appear neat and elegant? 
What is the effect of this ? In the fifth 
place, what must be avoided ? What 
has always a bad effect in speaking ? 
Where may it be proper; but what 
effect has it on an oration? To what 
member should the heads of a sermon 
be limited? Why should the division 
of a sermon, or of a pleading at the 
bar, be studied with much accuracy 
and care ? What effect will this have ? 
What do the French writers of ser¬ 
mons study much more than we do ? 
Among the French, however, what 
sometimes appears in their divisions? 
What examples, from two eminent 
French writers, are here introduced ? 
What was the next constituent part of 
a discourse mentioned? Why are these 


two put together ? In pleadings at the 
bar, of narration, what is observed? 
What peculiar difficulty is there in 
narrations at the bar ? What, here, de¬ 
mand no small exertion of skill and 
dexterity? What must he always re¬ 
member? What does Quintilian very 
properly direct? What qualities do 
critics chiefly require in narration ; and 
of each of these, what is observed ? Of 
distinctness, what is remarked? How 
is this illustrated ? In order to produce 
distinctness, what does narration re¬ 
quire ? What is material, in order to be 
probable in narration? In order to be 
as concise as the subject will admit, 
what is necessary ? Who is remarkable 
for his talent of narration? What in¬ 
stance is given? What does he here 
wish to show ? How are all the cir¬ 
cumstances, for rendering this probable, 
painted ? What does he give, in rela¬ 
ting the manner in which Milo set out 
from Rome ? Repeat the passage. In 
sermons, what comes in the place of 
narration at the bar; and in what 
manner must it be taken up ? What is, 
properly, the didactic part of preach¬ 
ing ; and on the right execution of it, 
what depends? What is the great art 
of succeeding with it? How is this fully 
illustrated? Of what should the preach¬ 
er be persuaded ? 

ANALYSIS. 

1. The introduction. 

a. The ends of an introduction. 

b. The introductions of the ancients. 
Rules for the composition of an in¬ 
troduction. 

a. It should be easy and natural. 

h. Correctness of expression should 

be observed. 

c. Modesty should be one of its 

principal characteristics. 

d. It should be calmly conducted. 

e. It should not anticipate any part 

of the subject. 

2. The enunciation of the subject. 

3. The divisions of the discourse. 

a. The parts should be distinct from 

each other. 

b. The natural order should be fol¬ 

lowed. 

c. The members should exhaust the 

subject. 

D. The division should be expressed 

with precision. 

E. The heads should not be unneces¬ 

sarily extended. 

4. Narration or explication 







( 353 ) 


JLECTURE XXXII. 


CONDUCT OF A DISCOURSE....THE ARGUMENTATIVE 
PART... THE PATHETIC PART....THE 
PERORATION. 

In treating of the constituent parts of a regular discourse or ora¬ 
tion, I have already considered the introduction, the division, and 
the narration or explication. I proceed next to treat of the argu¬ 
mentative or reasoning part of a discourse. In whatever place, or 
on whatever subject one speaks, this, beyond doubt, is of the greatest 
consequence. For the great end for which men speak on any se¬ 
rious occasion, is to convince their hearers of something being either 
true, or right, or good; and, by means of this conviction, to influ¬ 
ence their practice. Reason and argument make the foundation, as 
I have often inculcated, of all manly and persuasive eloquence. 

Now, with respect to arguments, three things are requisite. 
First, the invention of them; secondly, the proper disposition and 
arrangement of them ; and thirdly, the expressing of them in such 
a style and manner, as to give them their full force. 

The first of these, invention, is, without doubt, the most mate¬ 
rial, and the ground-work of the rest. But, with respect to this, I 
am afraid it is beyond the power of art to give any real assistance. 
Art cannot go so far as to supply a speaker with arguments on every 
cause, and every subject; though it may be of considerable use in 
assisting him to arrange and express those, which his knowledge of 
the subject has discovered. For it is one thing to discover the rea¬ 
sons that are most proper to convince men, and another to manage 
these reasons with the most advantage. The latter is all that rhe¬ 
toric can pretend to. 

The ancient rhetoricians did indeed attempt to go much farther 
than this. They attempted to form rhetoric into a more complete 
system; and professed not only to assist public speakers in setting 
off their arguments to most advantage; but to supply the defect ot 
their invention, and to teach them where to find arguments on eve¬ 
ry subject and cause. Hence their doctrine of topics, or ‘ Loci 
Communes,’ and ‘Sedes Argumentorum,’ which makes so great a 
figure in the writings of Aristotle, Cicero, and Quintilian. These 
topics, or loci, were no other than general ideas applicable to a great 
many different subjects, which the orator was directed to consult, in 
order to find out materials for his speech. They had their intrinsic 
and extrinsic loci; some loci, that were common to all the different 
kinds of public speaking, and some that were peculiar to each. 
The common or general loci, were such as genus and species, cause 
and effect, antecedents and consequents, likeness and contrariety, 
3 E 45 


( 


354 


THE ARGUMENTATIVE PART [lect. xxxn. 


definition, circumstances of time and place; and a great many more 
of the same kinds. For each of the different kinds of public speak¬ 
ing, they had their ‘ Loci Personarum,’ and ‘Loci Rerum.’ As in 
demonstrative orations, for instance, the heads from which any one 
could be decried or praised; his birth, his country, his education, 
his kindred, the qualities of his body, the qualities of his mind, the 
fortune he enjoyed, the stations he had filled, &c.; and in delibera¬ 
tive orations, the topics that might be used in recommending any 
public measure, or dissuading from it; such as, honesty, justice, 
facility, profit, pleasure, glory, assistance from friends, mortification 
to enemies, and the like. 

The Grecian sophists were the first inventors of this artificial sys¬ 
tem of oratory; and they showed a prodigious subtilty and fertility 
in the contrivance of these loci. Succeeding rhetoricians, dazzled 
by the plan, wrought them up into so regular a system, that one 
would think they meant to teach how a person might mechanically 
become an orator, without any genius at all. They gave him re¬ 
ceipts for making speeches on all manner of subjects. At the same 
time, it is evident, that though this study of common places might 
produce very showy academical declamations, it could never pro¬ 
duce discourses on real business. The loci indeed supplied a most 
exuberant fecundity of matter. One who had no other aim, but to 
talk copiously and plausibly, by consulting them on every subject, 
and laying hold of all that they suggested, might discourse without 
end; and that, too, though he had none but the most superficial 
knowledge of his subject. But such discourse could be no other 
than trivial. What is truly solid and persuasive, must be drawn 
c ex visceribus causse,’ from a thorough knowledge of the subject, 
and profound meditation on it. They who would direct students 
of oratory to any other sources of argumentation, only delude 
them; and by attempting to render rhetoric too perfect an art, 
they render it, in truth, a trifling and childish study. 

On this doctrine, therefore, of the rhetorical loci, or topics, I 
think it superfluous to insist. If any think that the knowledge of 
them may contribute to improve their invention, and extend their 
views, they may consult Aristotle and Quintilian, or what Cicero 
has written on this head, in his Treatise De Inventione, his Topica, 
and second book De Oratore. But when they are to prepare a 
discourse, by which they purpose to convince a judge, or to pro¬ 
duce any considerable effect upon an assembly, I would advise them 
to lay aside their common places, and to think closely of their sub¬ 
ject. Demosthenes, I dare say, consulted none of the loci, when he 
was inciting the Athenians to take arms against Philip; and where 
Cicero has had recourse to them, his orations are so much the worse 
on that account. 

I proceed to what is of more real use, to point out the assistance 
that can be given, not with respect to the invention, but with re¬ 
spect to the disposition and conduct of arguments. 

Two different methods may be used by orators, in the conduct 


LECT. XXXII.] 


OP A DISCOURSE. 


355 


of their reasoning; the terms of art for which are, the analytic, and 
the synthetic method. The analytic is, when the orator conceals his 
intention concerning the point he is to prove, till he has gradually 
brought his hearers to the designed conclusion. They are led on 
step by step, from one known truth to another, till the conclusion 
be stolen upon them, as the natural consequence of a chain of pro¬ 
positions. As, for instance, when one intending to prove the being 
of a God, sets out with observing, that every thing which we see 
in the world has had a beginning; that whatever has hack a begin¬ 
ning, must have a prior cause; that in human productions, art shown 
in the effect, necessarily infers design in the cause: and proceeds 
leading you on from one cause to another, till you arrive at one su¬ 
preme first cause, from whom is derived all the order and design 
visible in his works. This is much the same with the Socratic 
method, by which that philosopher silenced the sophists of his age. 
It is a very artful method of reasoning; may be carried on with 
much beauty, and is proper to be used when the hearers are much 
prejudiced against any truth, and by imperceptible steps must be 
led to conviction. 

But there are few subjects that will admit this method, and not 
many occasions on which it is proper to be employed. The mode 
of reasoning more generally used, and most suited to the train of 
popular speaking, is what is called the synthetic; when the point 
to be proved is fairly laid down, and one argument upon another is 
made to bear upon it, till the hearers be fully convinced. 

Now, in all arguing, one of the first things to be attended to is, 
among the various arguments which may occur upon a cause, to 
make a proper selection of such as appear to one’s self the most 
solid; and to employ these as the chief means of persuasion. Eve¬ 
ry speaker should place himself in the situation of a hearer, and 
think how he would be affected by those reasons which he purpo¬ 
ses to employ for persuading others. For he must not expect to 
impose on mankind by mere arts of speech. They are not so easi¬ 
ly imposed on, as public speakers are sometimes apt to think. 
Shrewdness and sagacity are found among all ranks; and the speak¬ 
er may be praised for his tine discourse, while yet the hearers are 
not persuaded of the truth of any one thing he has uttered. 

Supposing the arguments properly chosen, it is evident that their 
effect will, in some measure, depend on the right arrangement of 
them; so as they shall not justle and embarrass one another, but 
give mutual aid; and bear with the fairest and fullest direction on the 
point in view. Concerning this, the following rules may be taken: 

In the first place, avoid blending arguments confusedly together, 
that are of a separate nature. All arguments whatever are directed 
to prove one or other of these three things; that something is true; 
that it is morally right or fit; or that it is profitable and good. These 
make the three great subjects of discussion among mankind ; truth, 
duty, and interest. But the arguments directed towards any one of 
them are generically distinct; and he who blends them all under one 


3 56 


THE ARGUMENTATIVE PART [lect. xxxtz. 


topic, which he calls his argument, as in sermons, especially, is too 
often done, will render his reasoning indistinct and inelegant. Sup¬ 
pose, for instance, that I am recommending to an audience benevo¬ 
lence or the love of our neighbour, and that I take my first argu¬ 
ment, from the inward satisfaction which a benevolent temper af¬ 
fords; my second, from the obligation which the example of Christ 
lays upon us to this duty; and my third, from its tendency to pro¬ 
cure us the good will of all around us : my arguments are good, but 
I have arranged them wrong; for, my first and third arguments are 
taken from considerations of interest, internal peace, and external 
advantages; and between these, 1 have introduced one which rests 
wholly upon duty. I should have kept those classes of arguments 
which are addressed to different principles in human nature, sepa¬ 
rate and distinct. 

In the second place, with regard to the different degrees of 
strength in arguments, the general rule is to advance in the way of 
climax, ‘ut augeatur semper, et increscat oratio.’ This especially 
is to be the course, wdien the speaker has a clear cause, and is con¬ 
fident that he can prove it fully. He may then adventure to begin 
with feeble arguments; rising gradually, and not putting forth his 
whole strength till the last, when he can trust to his making a suc¬ 
cessful impression on the minds of hearers, prepared by what has 
gone before. But this rule is not to be always followed. For, if he 
distrusts his cause, and has but one material argument on which to 
lay the stress, putting less confidence in the rest, in this case, it is 
often proper for him to place this material argument in the front; to 
pre-occupy the hearers early, and make the strongest effort at first; 
that, having removed prejudices, and disposed them to be favoura¬ 
ble, the rest of his reasoning may be listened to with more candour. 
When it happens, that amidst a variety of arguments, there are one 
or two which we are sensible are more inconclusive than the rest, 
and yet proper to be used, Cicero advises to place these in the mid¬ 
dle, as a station less conspicuous than either the beginning or the 
end of the train of reasoning 

In the third place, when our arguments are strong and satisfacto¬ 
ry, the more they are distinguished and treated apart from each other, 
the better. Each can then bear to be brought out by itself, placed 
in its full light, amplified and rested upon. But w r hen our arguments 
are doubtful, and only of the presumptive kind, it is safer to throw’ 
them together in a crowd, and to run them into one another: ‘ut 
quae sunt natura imbecilla,’ as Quintilian speaks, < mutuo auxilio sus- 
tineantur;’ that though infirm of themselves, they may serve mutu¬ 
ally to prop each other. He gives a good example, in the case of one 
who had been accused of murdering a relation, to whom he was heir. 
Direct proof was wanting; but, ‘ you expected a succession, and a 
great succession; you were in distrest circumstances; you were 
pushed to the utmost by your creditors; you had offended your re¬ 
lation, who had made you his heir; you knew that he was just then 
intending to alter his will; no time was to be lost. Each of these 


LECT. XXXII.] 


OF A DISCOURSE. 


357 


particulars by itself/ says the author, 4 is inconclusive; but when 
they are assembled in one groupe, they have effect.’ 

Of the distinct amplification of one persuasive argument, we 
have a most beautiful example, in Cicero’s oration for Milo. The 
argument is taken from a circumstance of time. Milo was candi¬ 
date for the consulship; and Clodius was killed a few days before 
the election. He asks, if any one could believe that Milo would be 
mad enough at such a critical time, by a most odious assassination, to 
alienate from himself the favour of people, whose suffrages he was 
so anxiously courting 5 This argument, the moment it is suggest¬ 
ed, appears to have considerable weight. But it was not enough, 
simply to suggest it; it could bear to be dwelt upon, and brought 
out into full light. The orator, therefore, draws a just and striking 
picture of that solicitous attention with which candidates, at such a 
season, always found it necessary to cultivate the good opinion of 
the people. 4 Quo tempore,’ says he, 4 (Scio enim quam timida sit 
ambitio, quantaque et quam solicita, cupiditas consulatus) omnia, 
non modo quae reprehendi palam, sed etiam quae obscure cogitari 
possunt, timemus. Rumorem, fabulam fietam es falsam, perhorres- 
cimus; ora omnium atque oculos intuemur. Nihil enim est tarn 
tenerum, tarn aut fragile aut flexible, quam voluntas erga nos sen- 
susque civium, qui non modo improbitati irascuntur candidatorum, 
sed etiam in recte factis sa?pe fastidiunt.’ From all which he most 
justly concludes, 4 Hunc diem igitur Campi, speratum atque exop- 
tatum, sibi proponens Milo, cruentis manibus, scelus atque facinus 
prse se ferens, ad ilia centuriarum auspicia veniebat? Quam hoc 
in illo minimum credibile !’* But though such amplifications as 
this be extremely beautiful, I must add a caution, 

In the fourth place,against extending arguments too far, and mul¬ 
tiplying them too much. This serves rather to render a cause sus¬ 
pected, than to give it weight. An unnecessary multiplicity of ar¬ 
guments both burdens the memory, and detracts from the weight 
of that conviction which a few well chosen arguments carry. It is 
to be observed too, that in the amplification of arguments, a diffuse 
and spreading method, beyond the bounds of reasonable illustra¬ 
tion, is always enfeebling. It takes off greatly from that 4 vis et 
acumen,’ which should be the distinguishing character of the argu¬ 
mentative part, of a discourse. When a speaker dwells long on a 
favourite argument, and seeks to turn it into every possible light, 

* ‘ Well do I know to what length the timidity goes of such as are candidates for 
public offices, and how many anxious cares and attentions, a canvass for the consul¬ 
ship necessarily carries along with it. On such an occasion, we are afraid not only of 
what we may openly be reproached with, but of what others may think of us in secret. 
The slightest rumour, the most improbable tale that can be devised to our prejudice, 
alarms and disconcerts us. We study the countenance, and the looks, of all around 
us : for nothing is so delicate, so frail, uncertain, as the public favour. Our fel¬ 
low-citizens not only are justly offended with the vices of candidates, but even on oc¬ 
casions of meritorious actions, are apt to conceive capricious disgusts. Is there then 
the least credibility, that Milo, after having so long fixed his attention on the impor¬ 
tant and wished-for day of election, would dare to have any thoughts of presenting 
himself before the august assembly of the people, as a murderer and assassin, with his 
hands imbrued in blood V 



358 


THE PATHETIC PART [lect . XXXII. 

it almost always happens, that, fatigued with the effort, he loses 
the spirit with which he set out; and concludes with feebleness 
what he began with force. There is a proper temperance in rea¬ 
soning, as there is in other parts of a discourse. 

After due attention given to the proper arrangement of argu¬ 
ments, what is next requisite for their success is, to express them 
in such a style, and to deliver them in such a manner, as shall give 
them full force. On these heads I must refer the reader to the di¬ 
rections I have given in treating of style, in former lectures: and 
to the directions I am afterwards to give concerning pronunciation 
and delivery. 

I proceed, therefore, next, to another essential part of discourse, 
which I mentioned as the fifth in order, that is, the pathetic; in 
which, if any where, eloquence reigns, and exerts its power. I shall 
not, in beginning this head, take up time in combating the scruples 
of those who have moved a question, whether it be consistent with 
fairness and candour in a public speaker, to address the passions of 
his audience? This is a question about words alone, and which 
common sense easily determines. In inquiries after mere truth, in 
matters of simple information and instruction, there is no question 
that the passions have no concern, and that all attempts to move 
them are absurd. Wherever conviction is the object, it is the un¬ 
derstanding alone that is to be applied to. It is by argument and 
reasoning, that one man attempts to satisfy another of what is true, 
01 light, or just; but if persuasion be the object, the case is chang¬ 
ed. In all that relates to practice, there is no man who seriously 
means to persuade another, but addresses himself to his passions 
more or less; for this plain reason, that passions are the great springs 
of human action. The most virtuous man, in treating of the most 
virtuous subject, seeks to touch the heart of him to whom he speaks; 
and makes no scruple to raise his indignation at injustice, or his 
pity to the distressed, though pity and indignation be passions. 

In treating of this part of eloquence, the ancients made the same 
sort of attempt as they employed with respect to the argumentative 
part, in order to bring rhetoric into a more perfect system. They 
inquired metaphysically into the nature of every passion; they gave 
a definition, and a description of it; they treated of its causes, its 
effects, and its concomitants; and thence deduced rules for work¬ 
ing upon it. Aristotle in particular has, in his treatise upon rhe¬ 
toric, discussed the nature of the passions with much profoundness 
and subtilty; and what he has written on that head, may be read 
with no small profit, as a valuable piece of moral philosophy; but 
whether it will have any effect in rendering an orator more pathetic 
is to me doubtful. It is not, I am afraid, any philosophical knowledge 
of the passions, that can confer this talent. We must be indebted for 
it to nature, to a certain strong and happy Sensibility of mind; and 
one may be a most thorough adept in all the speculative knowledge 
that can be acquired concerning the passions, and remain, at the 
same time, a cold and dry speaker. The use of rules and instruc- 


LECT. XXXII.] 


OF A DISCOURSE. 


359 


tions on this, or any other part of oratory, is not to supply the want 
of genius, but to direct it where it is found, into its proper channel; 
to assist it in exerting itself with most advantage, and to prevent 
the errors and extravagances into which it is sometimes apt to run. 
On the head of the pathetic, the following directions appear to me 
to be useful. 

The first is. to consider carefully, whether the subject admit the 
pathetic, and render it proper: and if it does, what part of the dis¬ 
course is the most proper for attempting it. To determine these 
points belongs to good sense; for it is evident, that there are many 
subjects which admit not the pathetic at all, and that even in those 
that are susceptible of it, an attempt to excite the passions in the 
wrong place, may expose an orator to ridicule. All that can be 
said in general is, that if we expect any emotion which we raise to 
have a lasting effect, we must be careful to bring over to our side, 
in the first place, the understanding and judgment. The hearers 
must be convinced that there are good and sufficient grounds for their 
entering with warmth into the cause. They must be able to justify 
to themselves the passion which they feel; and remain satisfied that 
they are not carried away by mere delusion. Unless their minds be 
brought into this state, although they may have been heated by the 
orator’s discourse, yet, as soon as he ceases to speak, they will re¬ 
sume their ordinary tone of thought; and the emotion which he has 
raised will die entirely away. Hence most writers assign the pa¬ 
thetic to the peroration, or conclusion, as its natural place; and, no 
doubt, all other things being equal, this is the impression that one 
would choose to make last, leaving the minds of the hearers warm¬ 
ed with the subject, after argument and reasoning had produced 
their full effect: but wherever it is introduced, I must advise, 

In the second place, never to set aparta head of a discourse in form, 
for raising any passion; never give warning that you are about to 
be pathetic; and call upon your hearers, as is sometimes done, to 
follow you in the attempt. This almost never fails to prove a re¬ 
frigerant to passion. It puts the hearers immediately on their guard, 
and disposes them for criticising, much more than for being moved. 
The indirect method of making an impression is likely to be more 
successful; when you seize the critical moment that is favourable 
to emotion, in whatever part of the discourse it occurs; and then, 
after due preparation, throw in such circumstances, and present 
such glowing images, as may kindle their passions before they are 
aware This can often be done more happily, in a few sentences 
inspired by natural warmth, than in a long and studied address. 

In the third place, it is necessary to observe, that there is a great 
difference between showing the hearers that they ought to be mov¬ 
ed, and actually moving them. This distinction is not sufficiently 
attended to, especially by preachers, who, if they have a head in 
their sermon to show how much we are bound to be grateful to God, 
or to be compassionate to the distrest, are apt to imagine this to be 
a pathetic part. Now all the arguments you produce to show me. 


360 


THE PATHETIC PART [lect. xxxn. 


why it is my duty, why it is reasonable and fit, that I should be 
moved in a certain way, go no farther than to dispose or prepare 
me for entering into such an emotion; but they do not actually ex¬ 
cite it. To every emotion or passion, nature has adapted a set of 
corresponding objects; and, without setting these before the mind, 
it is not in the power of any orator to raise that emotion. I am 
warmed with gratitude, I am touched with compassion, not when 
a speaker shows me that these are noble dispositions, and that it is 
my duty to feel them; or when he exclaims against me for my in¬ 
difference and coldness. All this time, he is speaking only to my 
reason or conscience. He must describe the kindness and tender¬ 
ness of my friend; he must set before me the distress suffered by 
the person for whom he would interest me; then, and not till then, 
my heart begins to be touched, my gratitude or my compassion be¬ 
gins to flow. The foundation, therefore, of all successful execution 
in the way of pathetic oratory is, to paint the object of that passion 
which we wish to raise, in the most natural and striking manner; 
to describe it with such circumstances as are likely to awaken it in 
the minds of others. Every passion is most strongly excited by 
sensation; as anger, by the feeling of an injury, or the presence of 
the injurer. Next to the influence of sense, is that of memory; and 
next to memory, is the influence of the imagination. Of this pow¬ 
er, therefore, the orator must avail himself, so as to strike the ima¬ 
gination of the hearers with circumstances which, in lustre and 
steadiness, resemble those of sensation and remembrance. In or¬ 
der to accomplish this, 

In the fourth place, the only effectual method is, to be moved 
yourselves. There are a thousand interesting circumstances sug¬ 
gested by real passion, which no art can imitate, and no refinement 
can supply. There is obviously a contagion among the passions. 

Ut ridentibus, arrident, sic flentibus adflent, 

Humani vultus. 

The internal emotion of the speaker adds a pathos to his words, his 
looks, his gestures, and his whole manner, which exerts a power 
almost irresistible over those who hear him.* But on this point, 
though the most material of all, I shall not now insist, as I have 
often had occasion before to show, that all attempts towards becom¬ 
ing pathetic, when we are not moved ourselves, expose us to cer¬ 
tain ridicule. 

Quintilian, who discourses upon this subject with much good 
sense, takes pains to inform us of the method which he used, when 
he was a public speaker, for entering into those passions which he 
wanted to excite in others; setting before his own imagination what 
he calls, ‘ Phantasiae’ or ‘ Visiones,’ strong pictures of the distress 

* ‘Quid enim aliud est causae ut lugentes, in recenti dolore. disertissime quaedam ex- 
clamare videantur; et ira nonunquam in indoctis quoque eloquentiarn faciat; qu&m 
quod illis inest vis mentis, et veritas ipsa Morum ? quare in iis quee verisitnilia esse vo- 
lumus, simus ipsi similes eorum qui vere patiunter aflectibus: et a tali animo proficis- 
catur oratio qualem facere judicem volet. Afficiamur antequam afficere coneraur.’ 

Quint. Lib. 6. 



LECT. XXXII.] 


OF A DISCOURSE. 


361 


or indignities which they had suffered, whose cause he had to plead, 
and for whom he was to interest his hearers; dwelling upon these, 
and putting himself in their situation, till he was affected by a pas¬ 
sion similar to that which the persons themselves had felt.* To 
this method he attributes all the success he ever had in public 
speaking; and there can be no doubt, that whatever tends to in¬ 
crease an orator’s sensibility, will add greatly to his pathetic powers. 

In the fifth place, it is necessary to attend to the proper language 
of the passions. VVe should observe in what manner any one ex¬ 
presses himself, who is under the power of a real and a strong pas¬ 
sion; and we shall always find his language unaffected and simple. 
It may be animated, indeed, with bold and strong figures, but it will 
have no ornament or finery. He is not at leisure to follow out the 
play of imagination. His mind being wholly seized by one object 
which has heated it, he has no other aim, but to represent that, in 
all its circumstances, as strongly as he feels it. This must be the 
style of the orator, when he would be pathetic; and this will be his 
style, if he speaks from real feeling; bold, ardent, simple. No sort 
of description will then succeed, but what is written i fervente ca- 
lamo.’ If he stay till he can work up his style, and polish and adorn 
it, he will infallibly cool his own ardour, and then he will touch the 
heart no more His composition will become frigid; it will be the 
language of one who describes, but who does not feel. We must 
take notice, that there is a great difference between painting to the 
imagination, and painting to the heart. The one may be done cool¬ 
ly, and at leisure; the other must always he rapid and ardent. In 
the former, art and labour may be suffered to appear; in the latter, 
no effect can follow, unless it seem to be the work of nature only. 

In the sixth place, avoid interweaving any thing of a foreign na¬ 
ture with the pathetic part of a discourse. Beware of all digres¬ 
sions, which may interrupt or turn aside the natural course of the 
passion, when once it begins to rise and swell. Sacrifice all beau¬ 
ties, however bright and showy, which would divert the mind from 
the principal object, and which would amuse the imagination, 
rather than touch the heart. Hence comparisons are always dan¬ 
gerous, and generally quite improper, in the midst of passion. Be¬ 
ware even of reasoning unseasonably; or, at least, of carrying on a 
long and subtile train of reasoning, on occasions when the princi¬ 
pal aim is to excite warm emotions. 

In the last place, never attempt prolonging the pathetic too much. 
Warm emotions are too violent to be lasting.! Study the proper 


* c Ut hominem occisum querar; non omnia quae in re presenti accidisse credibile 
est, in occulis habebo? Non percussor ille subitus erumpet? non expavescet circui*- 
ventus? exclamabit, vel rogabit, vel fugiet? non ferientem, non concidentem videbo ? 
non animo sanguis, et pallor, et gemitus, extremos denique expirantis hiatus, insidet? 
Ubi vero miseratione opus erit, nobis ea de quibus querimur accidisse credamus, atque 
id animo nostro persuadeamus. Nos ill simus, quos gravia, indigna, tristia, passos 
queramur. Nec agamus rem quasi alienam ; sed assumamus parumper ilium dolorem. 
Ita dicemus, quae in simili nostro casu dicturi essemus.’ Lib. 6. 

f « Nunquam debet esse longa miseratio ; nam cum veros dolores mitiget tempus, 

3 F 46 






362 


THE PATHETIC PART [lect. xxxii. 


time of making a retreat; of making a transition from the passion¬ 
ate to the calm tone; in such a manner, however, as to descend 
without falling, by keeping up the same strain of sentiment that was 
carried on before, though now expressing it with more moderation. 
Above all things, beware of straining passion too far; of attempting 
to raise it to unnatural heights. Preserve always a due regard to 
what the hearers will bear; and remember, that he who stops not 
at the proper point; who attempts to carry them farther in pas¬ 
sion than they will follow him, destroys his whole design. By en¬ 
deavouring to warm them too much, he takes the most effectual 
method of freezing them completely. 

Having given these rules concerning the pathetic, I shall give 
one example from Cicero, which will serve to illustrate several of 
them, particularly the last. It shall be taken from his oration against 
Verres, wherein he describes the cruelty exercised by Verres, when 
governor of Sicily, against one Gavius, a Roman citizen. This Ga- 
vius had made his escape from prison, into which he had been 
thrown by the governor; and when just embarkingat Messina, think¬ 
ing himself now safe, had uttered some threats, that when he had 
once arrived at Rome, Verres should hear of him, and be brought to 
account for having put a Roman citizen in chains. The chief ma¬ 
gistrate of Messina, a creature of Verres’s, instantly apprehends 
him, and gives information of his threatenings. The behaviour of 
Verres, on this occasion, is described in the most picturesque manner, 
and with all the colours which are proper, in order to excite against 
him the public indignation. He thanks the magistrate of Messina 
for his diligence. Filled with rage, he comes into the forum ; orders 
Gavius to be brought forth, the executioners to attend, and against 
the laws, and contrary to the well-known privileges of a Roman 
citizen, commands him to be stripped naked, bound, and scourged 
publicly in a cruel manner. Cicero then proceeds thus: ‘C^edeba- 
tur virgis, in medio foro Messanas, Civis Romanus, Judices l 9 every 
word rises above another, in describing this flagrant enormity; and, 

4 Judices/ is brought out at the end with the greatest propriety; 
‘Caedebatur virgis, in medio foro Messanae, Civis Romanus, Judices! 
cum interea, nullus gemitus, nulla vox alia istius miseri, inter dolo- 
rem crepitumque plagarum audiebatur, nisi haec,Civis Romanus sum. 
Hac se commeinoratione civitatis, omnia verbera depulsurum a cor- 
pore arbitrabatur. Is non modo hoc non perfecit, ut virgarum vim 
deprecaretur, sed cum imploraret saepius usurparetque nomen civis, 
crux, crux inquam, infelici isto & aerumnoso, qui nunquam istam 
potestatem viderat, comparabatur. 0 nomen dulce libertatis! 0 
jus eximium nostrse civitatis! 0 Lex Porcia, legesque Sempronise! 
Huccine omnia tandem reciderunt, ut civis Romanus, in provincia 
populi Romani, in oppido foederatorum, ab eo qui beneficio populi 

citius evanescat, neccsse est ilia, quam dicendo effinximus, imago: in qua, si rnora- 
mur, lacrymis fatigatur auditor, et requiescit, et ab illo quem ceperat irapetu, in ratio¬ 
nal redit. Non patiamur igitur frigescere hoc opus ; et affectum, cum ad summum 
perduxerimus, relinquamus ; nec speremus fore, ut alienamala quisquam diu ploret.’ 

Quinct. lib. 6. 




lect. xxxii.] OF A DISCOURSE. 363 


Romani fasces et secures haberet 
tur !** 


, deligatus, in foro, virgis egedere- 


Nothing can be fiber, nor better conducted, than this passage. 
The circumstances are well chosen forexciting both the compassion 
of his hearers for Gavius, and their indignation against Verres. The 
style is simple; and the passionate exclamation, the address to lib¬ 
erty and the laws, is well timed, and in the proper style of passion. 
The orator goes on to exaggerate Verres's cruelty still farther, by 
another very striking circumstance. He ordered a gibbet to be 
erected for Gavius, not in the common place of execution, but just 
by the sea-shore, over against the coast of Italy. 4 Let him,’ said 
he 4 who boasts so much of his being a Roman citizen, take a view 
from his gibbet of his own country. This insult over a dying man 
is the least part of his guilt. It was not Gavius alone that Ver¬ 
res meant to insult; but it was you, 0 Romans! it was every citizen 
who now hears me; in the person of Gavius, he scoffed at your 
rights, and showed in what contempt he held the Roman name, and 
Roman liberties. J 

Hitherto all is beautiful, animated, pathetic; and the model 
would have been perfect, if Cicero had stopped at this point. 
But his redundant and florid genius carried him further. He must 
needs interest, not his hearers only, but the beasts, the mountains, and 
the stones, against Verres: 4 Si haec non ad cives Romanos, non ad 
amicos nostrae civitatis, non ad eos qui populi Romani nomen audis- 
sent; denique si non ad homines, verum ad bestias; atque ut lon- 
gius progrediar, si inaliqua desertissima solitudine, ad saxa etad sco- 
pulos, haec conqueri et deplorare vellem, tamen omnia muta atque 
inanima, tanta et tarn indigna rerum atrocitate commoverentur.’t 
This, with all the deference due to so eloquent an orator, we must 
pronounce to be declamatory, not pathetic. This is straining the 
language of passion too far. Every hearer sees this immediately 
to be a studied figure of rhetoric; it may amuse him, but instead of 


* ‘ In the midst of the market-place of Messina,' a Roman citizen, O Judges ! was 
cruelly scourged with rods ; when, in the mean time, amidst the noise of the blows 
which he suffered, no voice, no complaint of this unhappy man was heard, except 
this exclamation, remember that 1 am a Roman citizen ! By pleading this privilege 
of his birthright, he hoped to have stopped the strokes of the executioner But his 
hopes were vain ; for, so far was he from being able to obtain thereby any mitigation 
of his torture, that when he continued to repeat this exclamation, and to plead the 
rights of a citizen, a cross, a cross, I say, was preparing to be set up for the exe¬ 
cution of this unfortunate person, who never before had beheld that instrument of 
cruel death. O sacred and honoured name of liberty! 0 boasted and revered privilege 
of a Roman citizen ! O ye Porcian and Sempronian laws! to this issue have ye all 
come, that a citizen of Rome, in a province of the Roman empire, within an allied 
city, should publicly in a market-place be loaded with chains, and beaten with rods, 
at the command of one who, from the favour of the Roman people alone, derived all 
his authority and ensigns of power !’ 

t { Were 1 employed in lamenting those instances of an atrocious oppression 
and cruelty, not among an assembly of Roman citizens, not among the allies of 
our state, not among those who had ever heard the name of the Roman people, 
not even among human creatures, but in the midst of the brute creation ; and to go 
farther, were I pouring forth my lamentations to the stones, and to the rocks, in some 
remote and desert wilderness, even those mute and inanimate beings would, at the 
recital of such shocking indignities, be thrown into commotion.’ 



364 


CONCLUSION OF A DISCOURSE, [lect. xxxn 


inflaming him more, it, in truth, cools his passion. So dangerous it 
is to give scope to a flowery imagination, when one intends to make 
a strong and passionate impression. 

No other part of the discourse remains now to be treated of, except 
the peroration, or conclusion. Concerning this, it is needless to say 
much, because it must vary considerably, according to the strain of 
the preceding discourse. Sometimes, the whole pathetic part comes 
in most properly at the peroration. Sometimes, when the dis¬ 
course has been entirely argumentative, it is fit to conclude with 
summing up the arguments, placing them in one view, and leaving 
the impression of them, full and strong, on the mind of the audi¬ 
ence. For the great rule of a conclusion, and what nature obvious¬ 
ly suggests, is, to place that last on which we choose that the strength 
of our cause should rest. 

In sermons, inferences from what has been said, make a common 
conclusion. With regard to these, care should be taken not only 
that they rise naturally, but, (what is less commonly attended to) 
that they should so much agree with the strain of sentiment through¬ 
out the discourse, as not to break the unity of the sermon. For in¬ 
ferences, how justly soever they may be deduced from the doc¬ 
trine of the text, yet have a bad effect, if, at the conclusion of a 
discourse, they introduce a subject altogether new, and turn off 
our attention from the main object to which the preacher may have 
directed our thoughts. They appear, in this case, like excrescences 
jutting out from the body, which form an unnatural addition to it; 
and tend to enfeeble the impression which the composition, as a 
whole, is calculated to make. 

The most eloquent of the French, perhaps, indeed.of all modern 
orators, Bossuet, bishop of Meaux, terminates in a very moving 
manner, his funeral oration on the great prince ofConde, with this 
return upon himself, and his old age: ‘ Accept, 0 prince! these 
last efforts of a voice which you once well knew. With you, all my 
funeral discourses are now to end. Instead of deploring the death of 
others., henceforth, it shall be my study to learn from you, how my 
own may be blessed. Happy, if warned by those gray hairs, of 
the account which I mustsoon give of my ministry, I reserve, solely 
for that flock whom I ought to feed with the word of life, the feeble 
remains of a voice which now trembles, and of an ardour which is 
now on the point of being extinct. 5 * 

. * n discourses, it is a matter of importance to hit the precise 
time of concluding, so as to bring our discourse just to a point' 
neither ending abruptly and unexpectedly; nor disappointing the 
expectation of the hearers, when they look for the close, and con- 


Agreez ces dermers efforts dune voix que vous fut conmie. Vous mettrez fin 
h. tous ces discours. Ai. lieu de deplorer la mort des autres, grand prince dore- 
navant je veux apprendre de vous, k rendre la mienne sainte. Heureux, si averti 
par ces cheveux blancs, du compte que je dois rendre de mon administration, je 
reserve au troupeau que je dois nourrir de la parole de vie, les restes d’une voix qui 
tombe & d une ardeur qui s eteint ’ These are the last sentences of that oration : but 
tbm OU L°'l- 1c * rat ‘ on » trom . that . P^sage, ‘Venez peuples, venez maintenant’ 
. though it is too long for insertion, is a great master-piece of pathetic eloquence. 




LECT. XXXII.] 


QUESTIONS. 


363 


tinuing to hover round and round the conclusion, till they become 
heartily tired of us. We should endeavour to go off with a good 
grace ; not to end with a languishing and drawling sentence ; but 
to close with dignity and spirit, that we may leave the minds of the 
hearers warm, and dismiss them with a favourable impression of 
the subject, and of the speaker. 


QUESTIONS* 


In treating of the constituent pails 1 
of a regular discourse, what have been 
considered ? To what does our author 
next proceed ? From what does it ap¬ 
pear that this is always of the greatest 
consequence ? Of what do reason and 
argument make the foundation ? With 
respect to argument, what three things 
are requisite ? Of invention, what is 
observed ? Of art, what is remarked; 
and why ? What was attempted by 
the ancient rhetoricians; and what did 
they profess? Hence, what arose? Of 
these topics, or loci, what is observed ? 
What had they ? What were the com¬ 
mon, or general loci? For each of the 
different kinds of public speaking, what 
had they? How is this remark illus¬ 
trated ? Who were the first inventors 
of this artificial system of oratory, and 
in the contrivance of their loci, what 
did they show ? Of succeeding rhetori¬ 
cians, what is observed ? At the same 
time, what is evident? What did the 
loci supply; and what remark follows? 
AVhence must what is truly solid and 
persuasive in oratory be drawn; and 
what remark follows ? On this doctrine, 
what is farther remarked ; and to what 
sources are those referred who think 
that the knowledge of them may con¬ 
tribute to improve their invention ? But 
when are they advised to lay aside 
their common places, and to think 
closely on their subject ? Of Demosthe¬ 
nes and Cicero, what is here observed ? 
To what does our author proceed ? 
What two different methods may be 
used by orators in the conduct of their 
reasoning ? What is the analytic me¬ 
thod ? How are his hearers led on ? Of 
this method, what illustration is given? 
W T ith what method is this much the 
same ; and of it, what is observed ? But, 
what remark follows; and consequent¬ 
ly, what mode of reasoning is more ge¬ 
nerally used ? In all arguing, what is 
one of the first things to be attended to? 


1 In what situation should every speaker 
place himself; and why? What re¬ 
marks follow ? Supposing their argu¬ 
ments properly chosen, on what, is it 
evident, their effect, in some measure, 
will depend ? Concerning this, what is 
the first rule that may be taken ? All 
arguments are directed to prove one of 
what three things; and what do these 
make ? Of the arguments directed to¬ 
wards any one of these, what is re¬ 
marked ? Of this remark, what illus¬ 
tration is given ? In the second place, 
with regard to the different degrees of 
strength in argument, what rule is 
given ? When, especially, is this to be 
the course ? What course may he then 
venture to pursue ? Why is not this 
rule to be always followed ? About in¬ 
conclusive arguments, what does Cice¬ 
ro advise ? Of arguments, in the third 
place, what is observed; and why? 
But when is it safer to throw them to¬ 
gether ? What says Quintilian on this 
subject; and what example is given? 
Where have we a most beautiful ex¬ 
ample of the distinct amplification of 
one persuasive argument? From what 
is the argument taken? Repeat the 
manner in which it is conducted. Re¬ 
peat the passage. In the fourth place, 
against what must we guard? What ef¬ 
fect does this have ? What, also, is to be 
observed ? From what does this detract ? 
When a speaker dwells long on any 
favourite argument, what is the conse¬ 
quence? After due attention to the 
proper arrangements of arguments, 
what is the next requisite for their suc¬ 
cess ? On these heads, to what is the 
reader referred ? To what does our au¬ 
thor, therefore, next proceed ? In com¬ 
batting what scruples, will our author 
not, in beginning this head, take up 
time; and why ? Where, is it evident, 
the passions have no concern ? What 
remark follows? What illustration of 
this remark is given ? But why does 





365 a 


QUESTIONS. 


the man who seriously intends to per¬ 
suade another, address himself to his 
passions ? How is this illustrated ? In 
treating of this part of eloquence, what 
attempt did the ancients make, and for 
what purpose ? What order did they fol¬ 
low ? What has Aristotle done; and of 
it, what is observed ? What cannot confer 
this talent; and to what must we be 
indebted for it ? With what attainment 
may one remain a cold and dry speak¬ 
er ? What is the use of rules and in¬ 
structions on this, or any other part of 
oratory ? 

On the head of the pathetic, what is 
the first direction given? Why does it 
belong to good sense to determine these 
points ? What is all that can, in gene¬ 
ral, be said ? Of what must the hearers 
be convinced ; and what may they be 
able to justify ? Unless their minds be 
brought into this state, what will be 
the consequence ? Hence, what place 
have most writers assigned to the pa¬ 
thetic ; and what remark follows ? In 
the second place, what does our author 
advise ? What is almost always the ef¬ 
fect of this; and why ? What is the in¬ 
direct method of making an impression ? 
How can this often be happily done ? 
In the third place, what is it necessary 
to observe ? By whom is this distinction 
not sufficiently attended to ; and of 
them, what is here observed ? How is 
this remark illustrated ? To every emo¬ 
tion, or passion, what has nature adapt¬ 
ed ; and what follows ? WTiat illustra¬ 
tion of this remark follows ? All this 
time he is speaking of what ? When, 
only, does the heart begin to be touch¬ 
ed, and the gratitude and compassion 
begin to flow? What, therefore, is the 
foundation of all successful execution in 
the way of pathetic oratory ? By what 
is every passion most strongly excited ; 
and what examples are given ? Why 
must the orator, therefore, avail himself 
of this power? To accomplish this, 
what, in the fourth place, is the only 
effectual method; and why ? What is 
the effect of the internal emotion of the 
speaker ? Why does our author not 
now insist on this point ? Of what does 
Quintilian take pains to inform us; and 
what was it? To this method, what 
does he attribute; and of what can 
there be no doubt? In the fifth place, 
to what is it necessary to attend'? 
What should we observe; and what 


[lect. xxmri. 

shall we always find? Of this lan¬ 
guage, what is further remarked ; and 
why not? His mind being wholly seized 
by one object, which has fired it, what 
is the consequence? When must this 
be the style of the orator; and when, 
in reality, will it be his style ; and what 
will be the consequence ? When will 
he touch the heart no more; and what 
will his composition become ? Of what 
must we take notice ? How is this dif¬ 
ference illustrated ? In the sixth place, 
what must be avoided? Of what di¬ 
gressions should we beware ; and what 
beauties should we sacrifice? Hence, 
of comparisons, what is observed ; and 
of what further should we beware ? In 
the last place, what should we never 
attempt; and why ? In what manner 
must we, however, study to make our 
retreat ? Above all things, of what 
must we beware? A due regard to 
what must we always preserve; and 
what must we remember ? By endea¬ 
vouring to warm them too much, of 
what does he take the most effectual 
method ? Having given these rules 
concerning the pathetic, what does our 
author do ? Whence is it taken ? Of 
this Gavius, what is related; and also 
of the chief magistrate of Messina? 
How is the behaviour of Verres, on this 
occasion, described ? Entering the fo¬ 
rum, what does he there direct, and 
what follows? How does Cicero then 
proceed ? Of this passage, what is ob¬ 
served ? In what manner does the ora¬ 
tor exaggerate Verres’ cruelty still far¬ 
ther ? Of the address, hitherto, what is 
observed? But what must he needs do? 
Repeat what follows. What must we 
pronounce this to be ? What does every 
hearer immediately perceive ? What 
remark follows ? What part, only, now 
remains to be treated of? Concerning 
this, why is it needless to say much ? 
How is this remark illustrated ? What 
is the great rule of a conclusion ? In 
sermons, what make a common con¬ 
clusion ? With regard to these, about 
what should care be taken ; and why ? 
In this case, like what do they appear? 
In what manner does the most eloquent 
of the French orators terminate his 
funeral oration on the great prince of 
Cond£ ? Repeat the passage. In the 
conclusion of all discourses, what is a 
matter of importance ? How should we 
endeavour to go off ; and not to end in 







lect. xxxni.] QUESTIONS. 365 b 


what manner ? Why should we end 
with dignity and spirit ? _ 

ANALYSIS^ = 

1. The argument of a discourse. 

a. The invention of arguments. 

B. The analytic and synthetic methods. 
Rules for the proper disposition of argu¬ 
ments. 

a. They should not be blended together. 
B. They should advance in the way of 
climax. 

c. If strong, they should be distinctly 
treated. 


d. They should not be extended too far. 

2. The pathetic part of a discourse. 

A. Discretion necessary in introducing it. 

b. No part of the discourse should be set 
apart for it. 

c. The speaker should actually affect the 
hearers. 

d. The speaker should be moved himself. 

e. The proper language of the passions 
should be attended to. 

f. Nothing foreign should be interwoven 
with it. 

g. It should not be too much prolonged. 

3. Instances of the pathetic. 


LECTURE XXXIII. 


PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY. 

Having treated of several general heads relating to eloquence, or 
public speaking, I now proceed to another very important part of 
the subject yet remaining, that is, the pronunciation, or delivery of a 
discourse How much stress was laid upon this by the most elo¬ 
quent of all orators, Demosthenes, appears from a noted saying of 
his, related both by Cicero and Quintilian ; when being asked, what 
was the first point in oratory ? he answered, delivery ; and being ask¬ 
ed, what was the second ? and afterwards, what was the third ? he 
still answered, delivery. There is no wonder that he should have 
rated this so high, and that for improving himself in it, he should have 
employed those assiduous and painful labours, which all the ancients 
take so much notice of; for, beyond doubt, nothing is of more im¬ 
portance. To superficial thinkers, the management of the voice 
and gesture, in public speaking, may appear to relate to decoration 
only, and to be one of the inferior arts of catching an audience. But 
this is far from being the case. It is intimately connected with what 
is, or ought to be, the end of all public speaking, persuasion ; and, 
therefore, deserves the study of the most grave and serious speakers, 
as much as of those whose only aim it is to please. 

For, let it be considered, whenever we address ourselves to others 
by words, our intention certainly is to make some impression on 
those to whom we speak : it is to convey to them our own ideas and 
emotions. Now, the tone of our voice, our looks and gestures, inter¬ 
pret our ideas and emotions no less than words do ; nay, the impres¬ 
sion they make on others, is frequently much stronger than any that 
words can make. We can see that an expressive look, or a passion¬ 
ate cry, unaccompanied by words, convey to others more forcible 
ideas, and rouses within them stronger passions, than can be com¬ 
municated by the most eloquent discourse. The signification of our 
sentiments, made by tones and gestures, has this advantage above 
that made by words, that it is the language of nature. It is that 
method of interpreting our mind, which nature has dictated to all, 
and which is understood by all; whereas, words are only arbitrary, 
conventional symbols of our ideas, and, by consequence, must make 
a more feeble impression. So true is this, that to render words fully 
significant, they must, almost in every case, receive some aid from 







366 PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY [lect. xxxur. 

the manner of pronunciation and delivery; and he who, in speaking, 
should employ bare words, without enforcing them by proper tones 
and accents, would leave us with a faint and indistinct impression, 
often with a doubtful and ambiguous conception, of what he had de¬ 
livered. Nay, so close is the connexion between certain sentiments 
and the proper manner of pronouncing them, that he who does not 
pronounce them after that manner, can never persuade us, that he 
believes, or feels, the sentiments themselves. His delivery may be 
such, as to give the lie to all that he asserts. When Marcus Calli- 
dius accused one of an attempt to poison him, but enforced his ac¬ 
cusation in a languid manner, and without any warmth or earnest¬ 
ness of delivery, Cicero, who pleaded for the accused person, im¬ 
proved this into an argument of the falsity of the charge, ‘An tu, 
M. Callidi, nisi fingeres, sic ageres?’ In Shakspeare’s Richard II. 
the Duchess of York thus impeaches the sincerity of her husband : 

Pleads he in earnest ?—Look upon his face, 

His eyes do drop no tears ; his prayers are jest; 

His words come from his mouth; ours, from our breast; 

He prays but faintly, and would be denied; 

We pray with heart and soul. 

But I believe it is needless to say any more, in order to show the 
high importance of a good delivery. ‘ I proceed, therefore, to such 
observations as appear to me most useful to be made on this head. 

The great objects which every public speaker will naturally have 
in his eye in forming his delivery, are, first, to speak so as to be 
fully and easily understood by all who hear him; and next, to speak 
with grace and force, so as to please and to move his audience. Let 
us consider what is most important with respect to each of these,* 

In order to be fully and easily understood, the four chief requi¬ 
sites are, a due degree of loudness of voice, distinctness, slowness, 
and propriety of pronunciation. 

The first attention of every public speaker, doubtless, must be, to 
make himself be heard by all those to whom he speaks. He must 
endeavour to fill with his voice the space occupied by the assembly. 
This power of voice, it may be thought, is wholly a natural talent. 
It is so in a good measure; but, however, may receive considera¬ 
ble assistance from art. Much depends for this purpose on the pro¬ 
per pitch, and management of the voice. Every man has three 
pitches in his voice; the high, the middle, and the low one. The 
high, is that which he uses in calling aloud to some one at a dis¬ 
tance. The low is, when he approaches to a whisper. The middle 
is, that which he employs in common conversation, and which he 
should generally use in public discourse. For it is a great mistake, 
to imagine that one must take the highest pitch of his voice, in order 
to be well heard by a great assembly. This is confounding two 
things which are different, loudness, or strength of sound, with the 
key or note on which we speak. A speaker may render his voice 

* On this whole subject, Mr. Sheridan’s Lectures on Elocution are very worthy of 

being consulted; and several hints are here taken from them. 



LECT. XXXIII.] 


OP A DISCOURSE. 


367 


louder, without altering the key; and we shall always be able to give 
most body, most persevering force of sound, to that pitch of voice, 
to which in conversation we are accustomed. Whereas, by setting 
out on our highest pitch or key, we certainly allow ourselves less 
compass, and are likely to strain our voice before we have done. 
We shall fatigue ourselves, and speak with pain; and whenever a 
man speaks with pain to himself, he is always heard with pain by 
his audience. Give the voice,therefore,full strength and swell of 
sound; but always pitch it on your ordinary speaking key. Make 
it a constant rule never to utter a greater quantity of voice, than you 
can afford without pain to yourselves, and without any extraordina¬ 
ry effort. As long as you keep within these bounds, the other or¬ 
gans of speech will be at liberty to discharge their several offices 
with ease; and you will always have your voice under command. 
But whenever you transgress these bounds, you give up the reins, 
and have no longer any management of it. It is an useful rule too, 
in order to be well heard, to fix our eye on some of the most distant 
persons in the assembly, and to consider ourselves as speaking to 
them. We naturally and mechanically utter our words with such 
a degree of strength, as to make ourselves be heard by one to whom 
we address ourselves, provided he be within the reach of our voice. 
As this is the case in common conversation, it will hold also in pub¬ 
lic speaking. But remember, that in public as well as in conver¬ 
sation, it is possible to offend by speaking too loud. This extreme 
hurts the ear, by making the voice come upon it in rumbling indis¬ 
tinct masses; besides its giving the speaker the disagreeable appear¬ 
ance of one who endeavours to compel assent, by mere vehemence 
and force of sound. 

In the next place, to being well heard and clearly understood, 
distinctness of articulation contributes more, perhaps, than mere 
loudness of sound. The quantity of sound necessary to fill even a 
large space, is smaller than is commonly imagined; and with dis¬ 
tinct articulation, a man of a weak voice will make it reach farther 
than the strongest voice can reach without it. To this, therefore, 
every public speaker ought to pay great attention. He must give 
every sound which he utters its due proportion, and make every 
syllable, and even every letter in the word which he pronounces, be 
heard distinctly ; without slurring, whispering, or suppressing any 
of the proper sounds. 

In the third place, in order to articulate distinctly, moderation is 
requisite with regard to the speed of pronouncing. Precipitancy 
of speech confounds all articulation, and all meaning. I need 
scarcely observe, that there may be also an extreme on the opposite 
side. It is obvious that a lifeless, drawling pronunciation, which 
allows the minds of the hearers to be always outrunning the speak¬ 
er, must render every discourse insipid and fatiguing. But the ex¬ 
treme of speaking too fast is much more common, and requires the 
more to be guarded against, because, w T hen it has grown up into a 
habit, few errors are more difficult to be corrected. To pronounce 
with a proper degree of slowness, and with a full and clear articula- 
3 G 


368 


PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY [lect. xxxnr. 

tion, is the first thing to be studied by all who begin to speak in pub¬ 
lic; and cannot be too much recommended to them. Such a pronun¬ 
ciation gives weight and dignity to their discourse. It is a great 
assistance to the voice, by the pauses and rests which it allows it 
more easily to make; and it enables the speaker to swell all his 
sounds both with more force and more music. It assists him also 
in preserving a due command of himself; whereas a rapid and hur¬ 
ried manner is apt to excite that flutter of spirits, which is the great¬ 
est enemy to all right execution in the way of oratory. 6 Promp- 
tum sit os/ says Quintilian, 4 non prseceps, moderatum, non lentum.* 
After these fundamental attentions to the pitch and management 
of the voice, to distinct articulation, and to a proper degree of slow¬ 
ness of speech, what a public speaker must, in the fourth place, 
study, is propriety of pronunciation ; or the giving to every word 
which he utters, that sound which the most polite usage of the lan¬ 
guage appropriates to it; in opposition to broad, vulgar, or provin¬ 
cial pronunciation. This is requisite, both for speaking intelligibly, 
and for speaking with grace or beauty. Instructions concerning 
this article can be given by the living voice only. But there is one 
observation, which it may not be improper here to make. In the 
English language, every word which consists of more syllables than 
one, has one accented syllable. The accent rests sometimes on the 
vowel, sometimes on the consonant. Seldom, or never, is there 
more than one accented syllable in any English word, however 
long; and the genius of the language requires the voice to mark that 
syllable by a stronger percussion, and to pass more slightly over the 
rest. Now, after we have learned the proper seats of these accents, 
it is an important rule to give every word just the same accent in 
public speaking, as in common discourse. Many persons err in this 
respect. When they speak in public, and with solemnity, they pro¬ 
nounce the syllables in a different manner from what they do at other 
times. They dwell upon them, and protract them; they multiply 
accents on the same word; from a mistaken notion, that it gives 
gravity and force to their discourse, and adds to the pomp of public 
declamation. Whereas, this is one of the greatest faults that can 
be committed in pronunciation; it makes what is called a theatrical, 
or mouthing manner; and gives an artificial, affected air to speech, 
which detracts greatly both from its agreeableness, and its impression. 

I proceed to treat next of those higher parts of delivery, by study¬ 
ing which, a speaker has something farther in view than merely to 
render himself intelligible, and seeks to give grace and force to what 
he utters. These may be comprised under four heads, emphasis, 
pauses, tones, and gestures. Let me only premise, in general, to 
what I am to say concerning them, that attention to these articles of 
delivery, is by no means to be confined, as some might be apt to ima¬ 
gine, to the more elaborate and pathetic parts of a discourse. There 
is, perhaps, as great attention requisite, and as much skill display¬ 
ed, in adapting emphasis, pauses, tones, and gestures, properly to 
calm and plain speaking; and the effect of a just and graceful de- 


XECT. XXXIII.] 


OF A DISCOURSE. 


369 


livery will, in every part of a subject, be found of high importance 
for commanding attention, and enforcing what is spoken. 

First, let us consider emphasis; by this, is meant a stronger and 
fuller sound of voice, by which we distinguish the accented syllable 
of some word, on which we design to lay particular stress, and to 
show how it affects the rest of the sentence. Sometimes the em¬ 
phatic word must be distinguished by a particular tone of voice, as 
well as by a stronger accent. On the right management of the em¬ 
phasis, depend the whole life and spirit of every discourse. If no 
emphasis be placed on any words, not only is discourse rendered 
heavy and lifeless, but the meaning left often ambiguous. If the 
emphasis be placed wrong, ve pervert and confound the meaning 
wholly. To give a common instance; such a simple question as 
this: ‘Do you ride to town to-day?’ is capable of no fewer than 
four different acceptations, according as the emphasis is differently 
placed on the words. If it be pronounced thus; do you ride to town 
to-day ? the answer may naturally be, No : I send my servant in my 
stead. If thus; Do you ride to town to-day ? Answer, No; I intend 
to walk Do you ride to town to-day? No; I ride out into the 
fields. Do you ride to town to-day ? No; but I shall to-morrow. 
In like manner, in solemn discourse, the whole force and beauty of 
an expression often depend on the accented word; and we may 
present to the hearers quite different views of the same sentiment, 
by placing the emphasis differently. In the following words of our 
Saviour, observe in what different lights the thought is placed, ac¬ 
cording as the words are pronounced, ‘Judas, betrayest thou the Son 
of Man with a kiss?’ Betrayest thou—makes the reproach turn, on 
the infamy of treachery. Betrayest thou —makes it rest, upon Ju¬ 
das’s connexion with his master. Betrayest thou the Son of Man — 
rests it upon our Saviour’s personal character and eminence. Be¬ 
trayest thou the Son of Man with a kiss? turns it upon his prosti¬ 
tuting the signal of peace and friendship, to the purpose of a mark 
of destruction. 

In order to acquire the proper management of the emphasis, the 
great rule, and indeed the only rule possible to be given is, that the 
speaker study to attain a just conception of the force and spirit of 
those sentiments which he is to pronounce. For, to lay the empha¬ 
sis with exact propriety, is a constant exercise of good sense and at¬ 
tention. It is far from being an inconsiderable attainment. It is 
one of the greatest trials of a true and just taste; and must arise 
from feeling delicately ourselves, and from judging accurately, of 
what is fittest to strike the feelings of others There is as great a 
difference between a chapter of the Bible, or any other piece of 
plain prose, read by one who places the several emphasis every 
where with taste and judgment, and by one who neglects or mis¬ 
takes them, as there is between the same tune played by the most 
masterly hand, or by the most bungling performer. 

In all prepared discourses, it would be of great use, if they were 
read over or rehearsed in private, with this particular view, to search 

47 


370 PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY [lect. xxxiii. 

for the proper emphasis before they were pronounced in public j 
marking, at the same time, with a pen, the emphatical words in 
every sentence, or at least in the most weighty and affecting parts 
of a discourse, and fixing them well in memory. Were thisatten- 
tion oftener bestowed, were this part of pronunciation studied with 
more exactness, and not left to the moment of delivery, as is com¬ 
monly done, public speakers would find their care abundantly re¬ 
paid, by the remarkable effects which it would produce upon their 
audience. Let me caution, at the same time, against one error, 
that of multiplying emphatical words too much. It is only by a pru¬ 
dent reserve in the use of them, that we can give them any weight. 
If they recur too often; if a speaker attempts to render every thing 
which he says of high importance, by a multitude of strong empha¬ 
sis, we soon learn to pay little regard to them. To crowd every 
sentence with emphatical words, is like crowding all the pages of a 
book with italic characters, which, as to the effect, is just the same 
with using no such distinctions at all. 

Next to emphasis, the pauses in speaking demand attention. 
These are of two kinds; first, emphatical pauses; and next, such as 
mark the distinctions of sense. An emphatical pause is made, after 
something has been said of peculiar moment, and on which we want 
to fix the hearer’s attention. Sometimes, before such a thing is said, 
we usher it in with a pause of this nature. Such pauses have the 
same effect, as a strong emphasis, and are subject to the same rules; 
especially to the caution just now given, of not repeating them too fre¬ 
quently. For as they excite uncommon attention, and of course raise 
expectation, if the importance of the matter be not fully answerable 
to such expectation, they occasion disappointment and disgust. 

But the most frequent and the principal use of the pauses, is to mark 
the divisions of the sense; and at the same time to allow the speak¬ 
er to draw his breath; and the proper and graceful adjustment of 
such pauses, is one of the most nice and difficult articles in delivery. 
In all public speaking the management of the breath requires a 
good deal of care, so as not to be obliged to divide words from one 
another, which have so intimate a connexion that they ought to be 
pronounced with the same breath, and without the least separation. 
Many a sentence is miserably mangled, and the force of the empha¬ 
sis totally lost, by divisions being made in the wrong place. To 
avoid this, every one,while he is speaking, should be very careful to 
provide a full supply of breath for what he is to utter. It is a great 
mistake to imagine, that the breath must be drawn only at the end 
of a period, when the voice is allowed to fall. It may easily be 
gathered at the intervals of the period, when the voice is only sus¬ 
pended for a moment; and by this management, one may have al¬ 
ways a sufficient stock for carrying on the longest sentence, with¬ 
out improper interruptions. 

If any one, in public speaking, shall have formed to himself a 
certain melody or tune, which requires rest and pauses of its own, 
distinct from those of the sense, he has, undoubtedly, contracted 
one of the worst habits into which a public speaker can fall. It is 


L£CT. XXXIII.] 


of a discourse:. 


371 


the sense which should always rule the pauses of the voice; for 
wherever there is any sensible suspension of the voice, the hearer is 
always led to expect somewhat corresponding in the meaning. 
Pauses in public discourse, must be formed upon the manner in 
which we utter ourselves in ordinary, sensible conversation; and 
not upon the stiff, artificial manner,which we acquire from reading 
books according to the common punctuation. The general run of 
punctuation is very arbitrary; often capricious and false; and dic¬ 
tates an uniformity of tone in the pauses, which is extremely disa¬ 
greeable ; for we are to observe, that to render pauses graceful and 
expressive, they must not only be made in the right place, but also 
accompanied with a proper tone of voice, by which the nature of 
these pauses is intimated; much more than by the length of them, 
which can never be exactly measured. Sometimes it is only a slight 
and simple suspension of voice that is proper; sometimes a degree 
of cadence in the voice is required; and sometimes that peculiar 
tone and cadence, which denotes the sentence finished. In all these 
cases, we are to regulate ourselves, by attending to the manner in 
which nature teaches us to speak, when engaged in real and earnest 
discourse with others. 

When we are reading or reciting verse, there is a peculiar diffi¬ 
culty in making the pauses justly. The difficulty arises from the 
melody of the verse, which dictates to the ear pauses or rests of its 
own ; and to adjust and compound these properly with the pauses of 
the sense, so as neither to hurt the ear, nor offend the understand¬ 
ing, is so very nice a matter, that it is no wonder we so seldom 
meet with good readers of poetry. There are two kinds of pauses 
that belong to the music of verse; one is, the pause at the end of 
the line; and the other, the caesural pause in the middle of it. With 
regard to the pause at the end of the line, which marks that strain 
or verse to be finished, rhyme renders this always sensible, and in 
some measure, compels us to observe it in our pronunciation. In 
blank verse, where there is a greater liberty permitted of running 
the lines into one another, sometimes v\ ithout any suspension in the 
sense, it has been made a question, whether in reading such verse 
with propriety, any regard at all should be paid to the close of a 
line ? On the stage, where the appearance of speaking in verse should 
always be avoided, there can, I think, be no doubt, that the close of 
such lines as make no pause in the sense, should not be rendered 
perceptible to the ear. But on other occasions, this were improper: 
for what is the us', of melody, or for what end has the poet compos¬ 
ed in verse, if in reading his lines, we suppress his numbers; and 
degrade them, by our pronunciation, into mere prose? We ought, 
.therefore, certainly, to read blank verse so as to make every line 
sensible to the ear. At the same time, in doing so, every appear¬ 
ance of sing-song and tone must be carefully guarded against. The 
close of the line, where it makes no pause in the meaning, ought to 
be marked, not by such a tone as is used in finishing a sentence; but 
without either letting the voice fall, or elevating it, it should be mark- 


'372. 


PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY [lect. xxxiii. 


ed only by such a slight suspension of sound, as may distinguish 
the passage from one line to another, without injuring the meaning. 

The other kind of musical pause, is that which falls somewhere 
about the middle of the verse, and divides it into two hemisticks ; 
a pause, not so great as that which belongs to the close of the line, 
but still sensible to an ordinary ear. This, which is called the caesu- 
ral pause, in the French heroic verse, falls uniformly in the middle 
of the line. In the English, it may fall after the 4th, 5th, 6t,h, or 
7th syllables in the line, and no other. Where the verse is so con¬ 
structed, that this caesural pause coincides with the slightest pause 
or division in the sense, the line can be read easily; as in the two 
first verses of Mr. Pope’s Messiah, 

Ye nymphs of Solyma! begin the song; 

To heav’nly themes, sublimer strains belong. 

But if it should happen that words, which have such a strict and 
intimate connexion, as not to bear even a momentary separation, 
are divided from one another by this caesural pause, we then feel 
a sort of struggle between the sense and the sound, which renders 
it difficult to read such lines gracefully. The rule of proper pro¬ 
nunciation in such cases is, to regard only the pause wffiich the 
sense forms, and to read the line accordingly. The neglect of the 
caesural pause, may make the lines sound somewhat unharmonious- 
iy; but the effect would be much worse, if the sense were sacrific¬ 
ed to the sound. For instance, in the following line of Milton, 

-What in me is dark, ' 

Illumine ; what is low, raise and support. 

The sense clearly dictates the pause after ‘illumine,’ at the end 
of the third syllable, wffiich, in reading, ought to be made accord¬ 
ingly; though, if the melody only were to be regarded, ‘illumine’ 
should be connected with what follows, and the pause not made 
till the fourth or sixth syllable. So, in the following line of Mr. 
Pope’s (Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot:) 

I sit, with sad civility I read. 

The ear plainly points out the caesural pause as falling after ‘sad,’ 
the 4th syllable. But it would be very bad reading to make any 
pause there, so as to separate ‘sad’ and ‘civility.’ The sense ad¬ 
mits of no other pause than after the second syllable ‘sit,’ which 
therefore must be the only pause made in the reading 

I proceed next to treat of tones in pronunciation, which are dif¬ 
ferent both from emphasis and pauses; consisting in the modulation 
of the voice, the notes or variations of sound which we employ in 
public speaking. How much of the propriety, the force and grace 
of discourse, must depend on these, will appear from this single 
consideration; that to almost every sentiment we utter, more espe¬ 
cially to every strong emotion, nature hath adapted some peculiar 
tone of voice; insomuch, that he who should tell another that he 
was very angry, or much grieved, in a tone which did not suit 
such emotions, instead of being believed, would be laughed at. 
Sympathy is one of the most powerful principles by which persua¬ 
sive discourse works its effect. The speaker endeavours to transfuse 



LECT. XXXIII.] 


OF A DISCOURSE. 


373 


into his hearers his own sentiments and emotions; which he can 
never be successful in doing, unless he utters them in such a man¬ 
ner as to convince the hearers that he feels them.* The proper ex¬ 
pression of tones, therefore, deserves to be attentively studied by 
every one who would be a successful orator. 

The greatest and most material instruction which can be given 
for this purpose is, to form the tones of public speaking upon the 
tones of sensible and animated conversation. We may observe 
that every man, when he is much in earnest in common discourse, 
when he is engaged in speaking on some subject which interests him 
nearly, has an eloquent or persuasive tone and manner What is 
the reason of our being often so frigid and unpersuasive in public 
discourse, but our departing from the natural tone of speaking, and 
delivering ourselves in an affected, artificial manner? Nothing can 
be more absurd than to imagine, that as soon as one mounts a pul¬ 
pit. or rises in a public assembly, he is instantly to lay aside the voice 
with which he expresses himself in private; to assume a new, stu¬ 
died tone, and a cadence altogether foreign to his natural manner. 
This has vitiated all delivery ;• this has given rise to cant and tedious 
monotony, in the different kinds of modern public speaking, espe¬ 
cially in the pulpit. Men departed from nature; and sought to give 
a beauty or force, as they imagined, to their discourse, by substitut¬ 
ing certain studied musical tones, in the room of the genuine ex¬ 
pressions of sentiment, which the voice carries in natural discourse. 
Let every public speaker guard against this error. Whether he 
speak in a private room, or in a great assembly, let him remember 
that he still speaks. Follow nature: consider how she teaches you 
to utter any sentiment or feeling of your heart. Imagine a subject 
of debate starting in conversation among grave and wise men, and 
yourself bearing a share in it. Think after what manner, with what 
tones and inflexions of voice, you would on such an occasion express 
yourself, when you were most in earnest, and sought most to be lis¬ 
tened to. Carry these with you to the bar, to the pulpit, or to any 
public assembly; let these be the foundation of your manner of 
pronouncing there; and you will take the surest method of render¬ 
ing your delivery both agreeable and persuasive. 

I have said, let these conversation tones be the foundation of public 
pronunciation ; but on some occasions, solemn public speaking re¬ 
quires them to be exalted beyond the strain of common discourse. 
In a formal, studied oration, the elevation of the style, and the har- 

* 1 All that passes in the mind of man may be reduced to two classes, which I call 
ideas and emotions. By ideas, 1 mean all thoughts which rise, and pass in succession 
in the mind. By emotions, all exertions of the mind in arranging, combining, and 
separating its ideas ; as well as all the effects produced on the mind itself by those 
ideas; from the more violent agitation of the passions, to the calmer feelings produced 
by the operation of the intellect and the fancy. In short, thought is the object of the 
one, internal feeling of the other. That which serves to express the former, I call the 
language of ideas ; and the latter, the language of emotions. Words are the signs of 
the one, tones of the other. Without the use of these two sorts of language, it is im¬ 
possible to communicate through the ear, all that passes in the mind of man.’ 

Sheridan, on the Art of Reading. 



374 PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY [lect. xxxm. 

mony of the sentences, prompt, almost necessarily, a modulation of 
voice more rounded, and bordering more upon music, than conver¬ 
sation admits. This gives rise to what is called the declaim ingman- 
ner. But though this mode of pronunciation runs considerably be¬ 
yond ordinary discourse, yetstill it must have, forits basis, the natu¬ 
ral tones of grave and dignified conversation. I must observe, at 
the same time, that the constant indulgence of a declamatory man- 
nei, is not favourable either to good composition, or good delivery, 
and is in hazard of betraying public speakers into that monotony 
of tone and cadence, which is so generally complained of. Where¬ 
as, he who forms the general run of his delivery upon a speaking 
manner is not likely ever to become disagreeable through monoto¬ 
ny* have the same natural variety in his tones, which a 

person has in conversation. Indeed, the perfection of delivery 
requires both these different manners, that of speaking with live¬ 
liness and ease, and that of declaiming with stateliness and dignity, 
to be possessed by one man; and to be employed by him, accord¬ 
ing as the different parts of his discourse require either the one or 
the other. This is a perfection which’is not attained by many; the 
gieatest part of public speakers allowing their delivery to be formed 
altogether accidentally, according as some turn of voice appears to 
them most beautiful, or some artificial model has caught their fan¬ 
cy; and acquiring, by this means, a habit of pronunciation, which 
they can never vary. But the capital direction, which ought never 
to be forgotten, is, to copy the proper tones for expressing every 
sentiment from those which nature dictates to us, in conversation 
with others; to speak always with her voice; and not to form to 
ourselves a fantastic public manner, from an absurd fancy of its be¬ 
ing more beautiful than a natural one.* 

It now remains to treat of gesture, or what is called action in pub¬ 
ic discourse. Some nations animate their words in common con- 
versation, with many more motions of the body than others do. 

1 he r rench and the Italians are, in this respect, much more sprightly 
thanweare. Butthere is no nation, hardly any person so phlegmatic, 
as not to accompany their words with some actions and gesticula- 
tions,on all occasions, when they are much in earnest. Itistherefore 
unnatural in a public speaker, it is inconsistent with that earnestness 
and seriousness which he ought to show in all affairs of moment to 
remain quite unmoved in his outward appearance; and to let the 
words drop from his mouth, without any expression of meaning or 
warmth in his gesture. 

The fundamental rule, as to propriety of action, is undoubtedly 
the same with what I gave as to propriety of tone. Attend to the 


° f “ ,e 1Sth CenU,ry ’ Wh ° haS wri *‘“ a Treatise in verse, 

-‘ Loquere; hoc vitium commune, loquatur 

Ut nemo ; at tensii declamitet omnia voce. 

Tu loquere ; ut mos est hominum ; boat & latrat ille * 

Ille ululat; rudit hie ; fari si talia dignum est) 

Non hominem vox ulla sonat ratione loquentem/ 

Joannes Lucas, de Gestu et Voce, lib. It. Paris, 1675. 







LECT. XXXIII.] 


OF A DISCOURSE. 


375 


looks and gestures, in which earnestness, indignation, compassion, 
or any other emotion, discovers itself to most advantage in the com¬ 
mon intercourse of men; and let these be your model. Some of 
these looks and gestures are common to all men; and there are also 
certain peculiarities of manner which distinguish every individual. 
A public speaker must take that manner which is most natural to 
himself. For it is here just as in tones. It is not the business of 
a speaker to form to himself a certain set of motions and gestures, 
which he thinks most becoming and agreeable, and to practise 
these in public, without their havingany correspondence to the man¬ 
ner which is natural to him in private. His gestures and motions 
ought all to carry that kind of expression which nature has dictat¬ 
ed to him; and, unless this be the case, it is impossible, by means 
of any study, to avoid their appearing stiff and forced. 

However, although nature must be the groundwork, I admit, that 
there is room in this matter for some study and art. For many per¬ 
sons are naturally ungraceful in the motions which they make; and 
this ungracefulness might, in part at least, be reformed by applica¬ 
tion and care. The study of action in public speaking, consists 
chiefly in guarding against awkward and disagreeable motions; and 
in learning to perform such as are natural to the speaker, in the 
most becoming manner. For this end, it has been advised by wri¬ 
ters on this subject, to practise before a mirror, where one may see 
and judge of his own gestures. But I am afraid persons are not 
always the best judges of the gracefulness of their own motions; 
and one may declaim long enough before a mirror, without correct¬ 
ing any of his faults. The judgment of a friend, whose good taste 
they can trust, will be found of much greater advantage to begin¬ 
ners, than any mirror they can use. With regard to particular rules 
concerning action and gesticulation, Quintilian has delivered a 
great many in the last chapter of the 11th book of his institutions; 
and all the modern writers on this subject have done little else but 
translate them I am not of opinion that such rules, delivered either 
by the voice, or on paper, can be of much use, unless persons saw 
them exemplified before their eyes.* 


* The few following hints only ! shall adventure to throw out, in case they may be 
of any service. When speaking in public, one should study to preserve as much dig¬ 
nity as possible in the whole attitude of the body. An erect posture is generally to be 
chosen ; standing firm, so as to have the fullest and freest command of all his motions; 
any inclination which is used, should be forwards towards the hearers, which is a na¬ 
tural expression of earnestness. As for the countenance, the chief rule is, that it should 
correspond with the nature of the discourse ; and when no particular emotion is ex¬ 
pressed, a serious and manly look is always the best. The eyes should never be fixed 
close on any one object, but move easily round the audience. In the motions made 
with the hands, consist the chief part of gesture in speaking. The ancients condemned 
all motions performed by the left hand alone; but I am not sensible that these are al¬ 
ways offensive, though it is natural for the right hand to be more frequently employed. 
Warm emotions demand the motion of both hands corresponding together. But whether 
one gesticulates with one or with both hands, it is an important rule, that all his motions 
should be free and easy. Narrow and straitened movements are generally ungraceful: 
for which reason, motions made with the hands, are directed to proceed from the shoul¬ 
der, rather than from the elbow. Perpendicular movements too with the hands, that 

3 H 



376 PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY, [lect. xxxirr, 

I shall only add further on this head, that in order to succeed well 
in delivery, nothing is more necessary than for a speaker to guard 
against a certain flutter of spirits, which is peculiarly incident to 
those who begin to speak in public. He must endeavour, above all 
things, to be collected, and master of himself. For this end, he 
will find nothing of more use to him, than to study to become 
wholly engaged in his subject ; to be possessed with a sense of its 
importance or seriousness; to be concerned much more to persuade 
than to please. He will generally please most, when pleasing is not 
his sole nor chief aim. This is the only rational and proper method 
of raising one’s self above that timid and bashful regard to an au¬ 
dience, which is so ready to disconcert a Speaker, both as to what 
he is to say, and as to his manner of saying it. 

I cannot conclude, without an earnest admonition to guard against 
all affectation, which is the certain ruin of good delivery. Let your 
manner, whatever it is, be your own; neither imitated from an¬ 
other, nor assumed upon some imaginary model, which is unnatural 
to you. Whatever is native, even though accompanied with seve¬ 
ral defects, yet is likely to please: because it shows us a man; be¬ 
cause it has the appearance of coming from the heart. Whereas 
a delivery, attended with several acquired graces and beauties, if it 
be not easy and free, if it betray the marks of art and affectation, 
never fails to disgust. To attain any extremely correct, and per¬ 
fectly graceful delivery, is what few can expect; so many natural 
talents being requisite to concur in forming it. But to attain what 
as to the effect is ver} r little inferior, a forcible and persuasive man¬ 
ner, is within the power of most persons; if they will only unlearn 
false and corrupt habits ; if they will allow themselves to follow na¬ 
ture, and will speak in public, as they do in private, when they speak 
in earnest, and from the heart. If one has naturally any gross de¬ 
fects in his voice or gestures, he begins at the wrong end, if he at¬ 
tempts at reforming them only when he is to speak in public. He 
should begin with rectifying them in his private manner of speak¬ 
ing; and then carry to the public the right habit he has formed. 
For when a speaker is engaged in a public discourse, he should not 
be then employing his attention about his manner, or thinking of 
his tones and his gestures. If he be so employed, study and affecta¬ 
tion will appear. He ought to be then quite in earnest; wholly oc¬ 
cupied with his subject and his sentiments ; leaving nature, and 
previously formed habits, to prompt and suggest his manner of de¬ 
livery. 

is, in the straight line up and down, which Shakspeare in Hamlet calls ‘sawingthe air 
with the hand,’ are seldom good. Oblique motions are, in general, the most graceful, 
loo sudden and nimblt motions should be likewise avoided. Earnestness can be fully 
expressed without them Shakspeare’s directions on this head, are full of good sense** 

* use a11 g entl y>’ * * a yS he, ‘ and in the very torrent and tempest of passion, acquire a 

temperance that may give it smoothness.’ 



{ 376 a J 


QUESTIONS. 


Having treated of several general 
heads relating to eloquence, to what 
dot« our author now proceed ? What 
evidence have we that Demosthenes 
laid great stress on this ? 01* what is 
there no wonder; and why ? To what 
may the management of the voice and 
gesture, in public speaking, appear to 
superficial thinkers, to relate? How 
does it appear that this is far from be¬ 
ing the case ? Whenever we address 
ourselves to others by words, what is 
our intention ? Of the tone of our voice, 
our looks and gestures, what is here ob¬ 
served ? What can we see ? What ad¬ 
vantage has the signification of senti¬ 
ments, made by tones and gestures, 
above that made by words ? So true is 
this, that to render words fully signifi¬ 
cant, what is requisite; and what re¬ 
marks follow ? What two illustrations 
of these remarks are given ? Repeat 
them. As it is needless to say any 
more, in order to show the high impor¬ 
tance of a good delivery, to what does 
our author proceed ? What are the 
great objects which every public speak¬ 
er will naturally have in his eye, in 
forming his delivery? On this subject, 
what are worthy of being consulted ? 
In order to be fully and easily under¬ 
stood, what are the four chief requi¬ 
sites? What, must, doubtless, be the 
first attention of every public speaker; 
and what must he endeavour to do? 
Of this power of voice, what is remark¬ 
ed ? What three pitches has every man 
to his voice; and define them ? To 
imagine what is a great mistake ? This 
is confounding what two different 
things ? How is this fully illustrated ? 
As long as you keep within these 
bounds, what will be the consequence? 
But what follows, when you transgress 
them ? What, also, is a useful rule in 
order to be well heard? How do we 
naturally, and mechanically, utter our 
words ? As this is the case, in common 
conversation, in what will it also hold ? 
But what must be remembered ? In 
what manner does this extreme offend ? 
In the next place, of distinctness of ar¬ 
ticulation, what is observed ? What re¬ 
mark- follows? In order to effect this, 
what must, every public speaker do ? 
In the third place, n order to articulate 
distinctly, what is requisite ; and why ? 
What need scarcely be observed ? 
What must render every discourse in¬ 
sipid and fatiguing? But what extreme 


is much more common, and why should 
it be guarded against? What is the 
first thing to be studied by all who 
begin to speaK in public; and of it, 
what is observed ? In what manner, 
does it assist the voice; and what does 
it enable the speaker to do? What 
other advantage has it; and what fol¬ 
lows ? After these fundamental atterr- 
tions to the pitch and management of 
the voice, &c. what, in the fourth 
place, must the speaker study? For 
what is this requisite ? How, only, can 
instruction concerning this article, be 
given? But here, what observations 
may it be proper to make ? How do 
many persons err in this respect ? From 
what mistaken notion does this arise ? 
Whereas, what is the effect of this? 
To treat of what, does our author 
next proceed ? Under what four heads, 
may these be comprised ? To what is 
to be said concerning them, what is, 
in general, premised ? How is this illus¬ 
trated ? By emphasis, what is meant ? 
How must the emphatic word some¬ 
times be distinguished ? On the right 
management of the emphasis, what 
depends? How is this illustrated ? What 
simple rule is given; and repeat it ? Of 
the same thing, in solemn discourse, what 
is observed; and by what example is 
this illustrated ? In order to acquire the 
proper management of the emphasis, 
what is the great rule; and why ? It is 
far from what ? Of what is it one of 
the greatest trials; and from what must 
it arise ? How is this illustrated ? y In 
all prepared discourses, what practice 
would be of great use? Were this at¬ 
tention oftener bestowed, what would 
be the consequence? Against what,, 
are speakers at the same time, caution¬ 
ed ? Why is this caution given • and 
what remark follows ? To crowd every 
page with emphatic words, is like what? 
Next to emphasis, what demand atten¬ 
tion ? These are, of what two kinds? 
When is an emphatic pause made ? 
What effect have such pauses ; and to 
what are they subject ? For what 
reason ? But what is the most frequent 
and principal use of the pauses; and 
of the proper and graceful adjustment 
of such pauses, what is observed ? 
Why does the management of the 
breath, in all public speaking, require a 
good deal of attention ? By what, is 
many a sentence miserably mangled, 
and the force of the emphasis totally 





376 b 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect. XXXIII, 


lost ? 


In what manner may this be|have for its basis? What, at the same 

(1 f --.1_ in 1X71 


avoided ? 

What is a great mistake; and when 
may it be easily gathered ? What is 
one of the worst habits into which a 
public speaker can fall ? Why should 
the sense always rule the pauses of the 
voice? Upon what must pauses in 
public discourse be founded? Of the 
general run of punctuation, what is ob¬ 
served ; and why ? How is this remark- 
illustrated ? In all these cases, how are 
we to regulate ourselves ? From what 
does the difficulty of reading poetry 
arise? Why is it no wonder that we 
seldom meet with good readers of 
poetry ? W hat two kinds of pauses be¬ 
long to the music of verse ? With re¬ 
gard to the former, what is observed? 
In blank verse, what has been made a 
question ? Of the reading of this verse 
on the stage, what is observed? But 
why were this improper on other oc¬ 
casions? What, therefore, follows ? At 
the same time, what should be guard¬ 
ed against? How is this illustrated? 
Oftheother kindsof musical pause what 
is observed ? In French heroic verse, 
where does this pause fall; and where 
may it fall in the English? When can 
the line be read easily; and what ex¬ 
ample is given ? W hen do we feel a sort 
of struggling between the sense and the 
sound; and what is its effect? In such 
cases, what is the rule for pronuncia¬ 
tion? W T hat remark follows; and by 
what example is it illustrated ? How is 
this principle further illustrated from a 
line of Mr. Pope’s? To what does our 
author next proceed ; and of them what 
is observed? From what consideration 
will the extent to which the propriety, 
force, and grace of discourse, depend 
on these, appear? How is this remark 
illustrated ? What is the greatest, and 
most material instruction which can be 
given for this purpose? When has 
every man an eloquent or persuasive 
tone and manner? What is the reason 
of our being often so frigid and unper¬ 
suasive in public discourse; and to ima¬ 
gine what, is an absurdity? What has 
been the effect of this? How is this 
further illustrated ? Of these conver¬ 
sational tones, what has been said ? In 
a formal, studied oration, to what does 
the elevation of the style, and the har¬ 
mony of the sentences, almost necessa¬ 
rily prompt? To what manner does 
this give rise ? Though this mode of 
pronunciation was considerably beyond 
ordinary discourse, yet what must it 


time, must be observed ? Whereas, 
what follows ? In tones, what variety 
will he have? What does the perfec¬ 
tion of delivery require? Why is not 
this perfection acquired by many ? But 
what is the direction which ought 
never to be forgotten ? It now remains 
to treat of what ? Of some nations, what 
is observed, and what instances are 
mentioned ? But what remark follows ? 
W’hat is, therefore, unnatural and in¬ 
consistent. in a public speaker? As to 
propriety of action, what is the funda¬ 
mental rule ? Of these looks and ges¬ 
tures, what is observed ? What man¬ 
ner must a public speaker take, and 
why ? What kind of expression ought 
his gestures and motions to carry; and 
unless this is the case, what will be 
impossible? Though nature must be 
the ground-work, yet what is admit¬ 
ted ; and why ? In what does the study 
of action in public speaking, chiefly 
consist? For this end, what has been 
advised by writers on this subject? 
But of what is our author afraid? 
What will be found of much greater 
advantage ? With regard to particular 
rules, concerning action and gesticula¬ 
tion, what is observed ? On this head, 
what further is added? Above all 
things, what must he endeavour ? For 
this end, what will he find of the 
greatest use to him? When will he 
generally please most? For what is 
this the only rational and proper me 
thod ? Without what admonition, can¬ 
not our author conclude? What remark 
follows? Why is whatever is native, 
likely to please? Whereas, what deli¬ 
very never fails to disgust us ? What 
can few expect; and why ? What re¬ 
mark follows ? What is observed of one 
who has naturally any gross defect in 
his voice or gestures ? How should he 
begin ; and why ? Tf he be so employ¬ 
ed, what will be the consequence ? How 
ought he then to appear ? 


ANALYSIS. 

The delivery of a discourse. 

1. A due degree of loudness. 

2. Distinctness of articulation. 

3. Moderation in pronunciation. 

4. Propriety of pronunciation. 

Requisites for pleasing. 

1. Attention to emphasis. 

2. Attention to pauses. 

a. Emphatical pause. 

b. Ceesural pause. 

3. Attention to tones. 

4. Attention to action. 

a . All affectation to be guarded against 













( 377 ) 


LECTURE XXXIV* 



MEANS OF IMPROVING IN ELOQUENCE. 

I have now treated fully of the different kinds of public speak¬ 
ing, of the composition, and of the delivery of a discourse. Before 
I finish this subject, it may be of use to suggest some things con¬ 
cerning the proper means of improvement in the art of public spea¬ 
king, and the most necessary studies for that purpose. 

To be an eloquent speaker, in the proper sense of the word, is 
far from being either a common or an easy attainment. Indeed, to 
compose a florid harangue on some popular topic, and to deliver it 
so as to amuse an audience, is a matter not very difficult. But though 
some praise be due to this, yet the idea which I have endeavoured 
to give of eloquence, is much higher. It is a great exertion of the 
human powers. It is the art of being persuasive and commanding; 
the art, not of pleasing the fancy merely, but of speaking both to 
the understanding and to the heart; of interesting the hearers in 
such a degree, as to seize and carry them along with us; and to leave 
them with a deep and strong impression of what they have heard. 
How many talents, natural and acquired, must concur for carrying 
this to perfection? A strong, lively, and warm imagination; quick 
sensibility of heart, joined with solid judgment, good sense, and pre¬ 
sence of mind; all improved by great and long attention to style 
and composition; and supported also by the exterior, yet important 
qualifications of a graceful manner, a presence not ungainly, and a 
full and tunable voice. How little reason to wonder, that a perfect 
and accomplished orator, should be one of the characters that is 
most rarely to be found ? 

Let us not despair, however. Between mediocrity and perfec¬ 
tion, there is a very wide interval. There are many intermediate 
spaces, which may be filled up with honour; and the more rare 
and difficult that complete perfection is, the greater is the honour of 
approaching to it, though we do not fully attain it. The number 
of orators who stand in the highest class is, perhaps, smaller than the 
number of poets who are foremost in poetic fame; but the study 
of oratory has this advantage above that of poetry, that, in poetry, 
one must be an eminently good performer, or he is not supportable: 

-Mediocribus esse pogtis 

Non homines, non Dii, non concessere column*.* 

In eloquence this does not hold. There, one may possess a mode¬ 
rate station with dignity. Eloquence admits of a great many dif¬ 
ferent forms; plain and simple, as well as high and pathetic; and 
a genius that cannot reach the latter, may shine with much reputa¬ 
tion and usefulness in the former. 


* For God and man, and letter’d post denies. 
That poets ever are of middling size. 

48 


Francis. 




378 


MEANS OF IMPROVING [lect.xxxiv. 

Whether nature or art contribute most to form an orator, is a tri¬ 
fling inquiry. In all attainments whatever, nature must be the prime 
agent. She must bestow the original talents. She must sow the 
seeds; but culture is requisite for bringing these seeds to perfec¬ 
tion. .Nature must always have done somewhat: but a great deal 
will always be left to be done by art. This is certain, that study and 
discipline are more necessary for the improvement of natural genius, 
in oratory, than they are in poetry. What I mean is, that though 
poetry be capable of receiving assistance from critical art, yet a 
poet, without any aid from art, by the force of genius alone, can 
rise higher than a public speaker can do, who has never given atten¬ 
tion to the rules of style, composition, and delivery. Homer form¬ 
ed himself; Demosthenes and Cicero were formed by the help of 
much labour, and of many assistances derived from the labour of 
others. After these preliminary observations, let us proceed to 
the main design of this lecture; to treat of the means to be used 
for improving in eloquence. 

In the first place, what stands highest in the order of means, is 
personal character and disposition. In order to be a truly eloquent 
or persuasive speaker, nothing is more necessary than to be a vir¬ 
tuous man. This was a favourite position among the ancient rhe¬ 
toricians : 4 Non posse oratorem esse nisi virum bonum.’ To find any 
such connexion between virtue and one of the highest liberal arts, 
must give pleasure; and it can. I think, be clearly shown, that this 
is not a mere topic of declamation, but that the connexion here al- * 
leged, is undoubtedly founded in truth and reason 

For, consider first, whether any thing contribute more to per¬ 
suasion, than the opinion which we entertain of the probity, disin¬ 
terestedness, candour, and other good moral qualities of the person 
who endeavours to persuade? These give weight and force to 
every thing which he utters; nay, they add a beauty to it; they dis¬ 
pose us to listen with attention and pleasure; and create a secret 
partiality in favour of that side which he espouses. Whereas, if 
we entertain a suspicion of craft and disingenuity, of a corrupt, or a 
base mind, in the speaker, his eloquence loses all its real effect. It 
may entertain and amuse ; but it is viewed as artifice, as trick, as 
the play only of speech; and viewed in this light, whom can it per¬ 
suade? We can even read a book with more pleasure, when we 
think favourably of its author; but when we have the living speak¬ 
er before our eyes, addressing us personally on some subject of im¬ 
portance, the opinion we entertain of his character must have a much 
more powerful effect. 

But, lest it should be said, that this relates only to the character 
of virtue, which one may maintain, without being at the bottom a 
truly worthy man, I must observe farther, that besides the weight 
which it adds to character, real virtue operates also, in other ways, 
to the advantage of eloquence. 

First, nothing is so favourable as virtue to the prosecution of ho¬ 
nourable studies. It prompts a generous emulation to excel; it 
inures to industry; it leaves the mind vacant and free, master of it- 


LECT. XXXIV.] 


IN ELOQUENCE. 


379 


self, disencumbered of those bad passions and disengaged from those 
mean pursuits, which have ever been found the greatest enemies to 
true proficiency. Quintilian has touched this consideration very 
properly ; i Quod si agrorum nimia cura, et sollicitior rei faniiliaris di- 
ligentia, et venandi voluptas, et dati spectaculis dies, multum studiis 
auferunt, quid putamus iacturas cupiditatem, avaritiam, invidiam? 
Nihil enim est tarn occupatum, tarn multifornie, tot ac tarn variis af- 
fectibus eoncisum, atque laceratum, quam mala ac improba mens. 
Quis inter haec, literis, aut ulli bonse arti, locus? Non hercle magis 
quam frugibus, in terra sentibus ac rubis occupata.’* 

But, besides this consideration, there is another of still higher 
importance, though I am not sure of its being attended to as much 
as it deserves; namely, that from the fountain of real and genuine 
virtue, are drawn those sentiments which will ever be most power¬ 
ful in affecting the hearts of others. Bad as the world is, nothing 
has so great and universal a command over the minds of men as vir¬ 
tue. No kind of language is so generally understood, and so pow¬ 
erfully felt, as the native language of worthy and virtuous feelings. 
He only, therefore, who possesses these full and strong, can speak 
properly, and in its own language, to the heart. On all great sub¬ 
jects and occasions, there is a dignity, there is an energy in noble 
sentiments, which is overcoming and irresistible. They give an ar¬ 
dour and a flame to one’s discourse, which seldom fails to kindle a 
like flame in those who hear; and which, more than any other 
cause, bestows on eloquence that power, for which it is famed, of 
seizing and transporting an audience. Here, art and imitation will 
not avail. An assumed character conveys none of this power¬ 
ful warmth. It is only a native and unaffected glow of feeling, 
which can transmit the emotion to others. Hence, the most re¬ 
nowned orators, such as Cicero and Demosthenes, were no less dis¬ 
tinguished for some of the high virtues, as public spirit and zeal 
for their country, than for eloquence. Beyond doubt, to these vir¬ 
tues their eloquence owed much of its effect; and those orations of 
theirs, in which there breathes most of the virtuous and magnani¬ 
mous spirit, are those which have most attracted the admiration of 
ages. 

Nothing, therefore, is more necessary for those who would excel 
in any of the higher kinds of oratory, than to cultivate habits of the 
several virtues, and to refine and improve all their moral feelings. 
Whenever these become dead, or callous, they may be assured, that, 
on every great occasion, they will speak with less power, and less 
success. The sentiments and dispositions particularly requisite for 


* < If the management of an estate, if anxious attention to domestic economy, a 
passion for hunting, or whole days given up to public places of amusements, consume 
so much time that is due to study, how much greater waste must be occasioned by 
licentious desires, avarice, or envy ? Nothing is so much hurried and agitated, so 
contradictory to itself, or so violently torn and shattered by conflicting passions, as 
a bad heart. Amidst the distractions which it produces, what room >s left for the 
cultivation of letters, or the pursuit of any honourable art P No more, assuredly, than 
there is for the growth of corn in a field that is overrun with thorns and brambles.’ 




380 MEANS OF IMPROVING [lect. xxxiv. 

them to cultivate, are the following: The love of justice and order, 
and indignation at insolence and oppression; the love of honesty 
and truth, and detestation of fraud, meanness, and corruption; mag¬ 
nanimity of spirit; the love of liberty, of their country, and the 
public; zeal for all great and noble designs, and reverence for all 
worthy and heroic characters. A cold and skeptical turn of mind, 
is extremely adverse to eloquence; and no less so, is that cavilling 
disposition which takes pleasure in depreciating what is great, and 
ridiculing what is generally admired. Such a disposition bespeaks 
one not very likely to excel in any thing: but least of all in oratory. 
A true orator should be a person of generous sentiments, of warm 
feelings, and a mind turned towards the admiration of all those 
great and high objects, which mankind are naturally formed to ad¬ 
mire. Joined with the manly virtues, he should, at the same time, 
possess strong and tender sensibility to all the injuries, distresses, and 
sorrows of his fellow-creatures; a heart that can easily relent; that 
can readily enter into the circumstances of others, and can make 
their case his own. A proper mixture of courage, and of modesty, 
must also be studied by every public speaker. Modesty is essen¬ 
tial; it is always and justly supposed to be a concomitant of merit; 
and every appearance of it is winning and prepossessing. But 
modesty ought not to run into excessive timidity. Every public 
speaker should be able to rest somewhat on himself; and to assume 
that air, not of self-complacency, but of firmness, which bespeaks a 
consciousness of his being thoroughly persuaded of the truth or 
justice of what he delivers; a circumstance of no small consequence 
for making an impression on those who hear. 

Next to moral qualifications, what in the second place is most ne¬ 
cessary to an orator, is a fund of knowledge. Much is this inculcat¬ 
ed by Cicero and Quintilian: ‘Quod omnibus disciplinis et artibus 
debet esse instructus orator/ By which they mean, that he ought 
to have what we call, a liberal education; and to be formed by a 
legulai study of philosophy, and the polite arts. We must never 
forget that, 

Scribemli recte, sapere est & principium & fons. 

Good sense and knowledge, are the foundation of all good speaking. 
There is no art that can teach one to be eloquent, in any sphere, 
without a sufficient acquaintance with what belongs to that sphere; 
or if there were an art that made such pretensions, it would be* 
mere quackery, like the pretensions of the sophists of old to teach 
their disciples to speak for and against every subject; and would be 
deservedly exploded by all wise men. Attention to style, to com¬ 
position, and all the arts of speech, can only assist an orator in set¬ 
ting off to advantage, the stock of materials which he possesses; 
but the stock, the materials themselves, must be brought from other 
quarters than from rhetoric. He who is to plead at the bar, must 
make himself thoroughly master of the knowledge of the law; of 
all the learning and experience that can be useful in his profession, 
for supporting a cause or convincing a judge. He who is to speak 


LECT. XXXIV.] 


IN ELOQUENCE. 


381 


from the pulpit, must apply himself closely to the study of divini¬ 
ty, of practical religion, of morals, of human nature; that he may 
be rich in all the topics, both of instruction and of persuasion. He who 
would fit himself for being a member of the supreme council of the 
nation, or of any public assembly, must be thoroughly acquainted 
with the business that belongs to such assembly; he must study the 
forms of court, the course of procedure; and must attend minutely 
to all the facts that may be the subject of question or deliberation. 

Besides the knowledge that properly belongs to his profession, 
a public speaker, if ever he expects to be eminent, must make 
himself acquainted, as far as his necessary occupations allow, with 
the general circle of polite literature. The study of poetry may be 
useful to him, on many occasions, for embellishing his style, for 
suggesting lively images, or agreeable allusions. The study of his¬ 
tory may be still more useful to him; as the knowledge of facts, 
of eminent characters, and of the course of human affairs, finds place 
on many occasions.* There are few great occasions of public speak¬ 
ing in which one will not derive assistance from cultivated taste, and 
extensive knowledge. They will often yield him materials for pro¬ 
per ornament; sometimes for argument and real use. A deficiency 
of knowledge, even in subjects that belong not directly to his own 
profession, will expose him to many disadvantages, and give better 
qualified rivals a great superiority over him. 

Allow me to recommend, in the third place, not only the attain¬ 
ment of useful knowledge, but a habit of application and industry. 
Without this, it is impossible to excel in any thing. We must not 
imagine, that it is by a sort of mushroom growth, that one can rise 
to be a distinguished pleader, or preacher, or speaker in any assem¬ 
bly. It is not by starts of application, or by a few years prepara¬ 
tion of study afterwards discontinued, that eminence can be attain¬ 
ed. No; it can be attained only by means of regular industry, grown 
up into a habit, and ready to be exerted on every occasion that 
calls for industry. This is the fixed law of our nature; and he must 
have a very high opinion of his own genius indeed, that can believe 
himself an exception to it. very wise law of our nature it is; 
for industry is, in truth, the great 4 condimentum,’ the seasoning of 
every pleasure; without which life is doomed to languish. No¬ 
thing is so great an enemy both to honourable attainments, and to the 
real, to the brisk, and spirited enjoyment of life, as that relaxed 
state of mind which arises from indolence and dissipation. One 
that is destined to excel in any art, especially in the arts of speak¬ 
ing and writing, will be known by this more than by any other 
mark whatever, an enthusiasm for that art; an enthusiasm, which 


* 1 Imprimis vero, abundare debet orator exemplorum copia, cum veterum, turn 
etiam novorum ; adeo ut non modo quae conscripta sunt historiis, aut Sermonibus velut 
per manus tradita, quaeque quotidie aguntur, debeat n6sse; verum ne ea quidem quae 
aclarioribus poetis sunt ficta negligere.’ 

Quint, 1. xu. cap, 4 



382 


MEANS OF IMPROVING [lect. xxxiv 


firing his mind with the object .he has in view, will dispose him to 
relish every labour which the means require. It was this that cha¬ 
racterized the great men of antiquity; it is this, which must distin¬ 
guish the moderns who would tread in their steps. This honoura¬ 
ble enthusiasm, it is highly necessary for such as are studying ora¬ 
tory to cultivate. If youth wants it, manhood will flag miserably. 

In the fourth place, attention to the best models will contribute 
greatly towards improvement. Every one who speaks, or writes, 
should, indeed, endeavour to have somewhat that is his own, that is 
peculiar to himself, and that characterizes his composition and style. 
Slavish imitation depresses genius, or rather betrays the want of it. 
But withal, there is no genius so original, but may be profited and 
assisted by the aid of proper examples, in style, composition, and 
delivery. They always open some new ideas; they serve to enlarge 
and correct our own. They quicken the current of thought, and 
excite emulation. 

Much, indeed, will depend on the right choice of models which 
we purpose to imitate; and supposing them rightly chosen, a farther 
care is requisite, of not being seduced by a blind, universal admira¬ 
tion. For, ‘decipit exemplar, vitiis imitabile.’ Even in the most 
finished models we can select, it must not be forgotten, that there 
are always some things improper for imitation. We should study 
to acquire a just conception of the peculiar characteristic beauties of 
any writer, or public speaker, and imitate these only. One ought 
never to attach himself too closely to any single model; for he who 
does so, is almost sure of being seduced into a faulty and affected 
imitation. His business should be, to draw from several the proper 
ideas of perfection. Living examples of public speaking, in any 
kind, it will not be expected that I should here point out. As to 
the writers, ancient and modern, from whom benefit may be deriv¬ 
ed in forming composition and style, I have spoken so much of 
them in former lectures, that it is needless to repeat wha-t I have said 
of their virtues and defects. I own it is to be regretted, that the 
English language, in which there is much good writing, furnishes 
us, however, with but very few recorded examples of eloquent pub¬ 
lic speaking. Among the French there are more. Saurin, Bour- 
daloue, Flechier, Massillon, particularly the last, are eminent for 
the eloquence of the pulpit. But the most nervous and sublime of 
all their orators is Bossuet, the famous Bishop of Meaux; in whose 
Oraisons Funebres , there is a high spirit of oratory.* Some of 
Fontenelle’s harangues to the French Academy, are elegant and 
agreeable. And at the bar, the printed pleadings of Cochin and 
D’Aguesseau, are highly extolled by the late French critics. 

There is one observation which it is of importance to make, 

* The criticism which Mr. Crevier, author of Rhetorique Fran^oise, passes upon these 
writers whom I have named, is, ‘Bossuet est grande, mais inegal; Flechier est plus 
egal, mais moins elev6, &, souvent trop fleuri: Bourdaloue est solide judiceux, mais 
il neglige Ies graces legeres: Massillon est plus riche en images, mais moins fort en 
raisonnement. Je souhaite done, que l’orateur ne se contente dans l’imitation d’un seul 
de ces modules, mais qu’il tache de r6unir en lui toutes leurs differentes vertus.’ 

Vol. II. chap, derniere 



LECT. XXXIV.] 


IN ELOQUENCE. 


383 


concerning imitation of the style of any favourite author, when 
we would carry his style into public speaking. We must at¬ 
tend to a very material distinction, between written and spoken 
language. These are, in truth, two different manners of com¬ 
municating ideas. A book that is to be read, requires one sort 
of style: a man that is to speak, must use another. In books, 
we look for correctness, precision, all redundancies pruned, all 
repetitions avoided, language completely polished. Speaking ad¬ 
mits a more easy, copious style, and less fettered by rule; repe¬ 
titions may often be necessary, parentheses may sometimes be 
graceful, the same thought must often be placed in different views; 
as the hearers can catch it only from the mouth of the speaker, 
and have not the advantage, as in reading a book, of turning back 
again, and of dwelling on what they do not fully comprehend. 
Hence the style of many good authors, would appear stiff, affected, 
and even obscure, if, by too close an imitation, we should transfer 
it to a popular oration. How awkward, for example, would Lord 
Shaftesbury’s sentences sound in the mouth of a public speaker? 
Some kinds of public discourse, it is true, such as that of the 
pulpit, where more exact preparation, and more studied style are 
admitted, would bear such a manner better than others, which 
are expected to approach more to extemporaneous speaking. But 
still there is, in general, so much difference between speaking, and 
composition designed only to be read, as should guard us against a 
close and injudicious imitation. 

Some authors there are, whose manner of writing approaches 
nearer to the style of speaking than others; and who, therefore, 
can be imitated with more safety. In this class, among the English 
authors, are Dean Swift, and Lord Bolingbroke. The Dean, 
throughout all his writings, in the midst of much correctness main¬ 
tains the easy natural manner of an unaffected speaker; and this 
is one of his chief excellencies. Lord Bolingbroke’s style is more 
splendid, and more declamatory than Dean Swift’s ; but still it is the 
style of one who speaks, or rather who harangues. Indeed, all 
his political writings (for it is to them only, and not to his philo¬ 
sophical ones, that this observation can be applied,) carry much 
more the appearance of one declaiming with warmth in a great 
assembly, than of one writing in a closet, in order to be read by 
others. They have all the copiousness, the fervour, the inculcating 
method that is allowable and graceful in an orator; perhaps too 
much of it for a writer: and it is to be regretted, as I have formerly 
observed, that the matter contained in them, should have been so 
trivial or so false; for, from the manner and style, considerable ad¬ 
vantage might be reaped. 

In the fifth place, besides attention to the best models, frequent 
exercise both in composing and speaking, will be admitted to be a 
necessary mean of improvement. That sort of composition is, 
doubtless, most useful, which relates to the profession, or kind 
of public speaking, to which persons addict themselves. This, 
they should keep ever in their eye, and be gradually inuring them- 


384 


MEANS OF IMPROVING [lect. xxxiv. 


selves to it. But let me also advise them, not to allow themselves 
in negligent composition of any kind. He who has it for his aim 
to write or to speak correctly, should, in the most trivial kind of 
composition, in writing a letter, nay, even in common discourse, 
study to acquit himself with propriety. I do not at all mean, that 
lie is never to write, or to speak a word, but in elaborate and arti¬ 
ficial language. This would form him to a stiffness and affectation, 
worse, by ten thousand degrees, than the greatest negligence. But 
it is to be observed, that there is, in every thing, a manner which 
is becoming, and has propriety; and opposite to it, there is a 
clumsy and faulty performance of the same thing. The becom¬ 
ing manner is very often the most light, and seemingly careless 
manner; but it requires taste and attention to seize the just idea 
of it. That idea, when acquired, we should keep in our eye, and 
form upon it whatever we write or say. 

Exercises of speaking have always been recommended to stu¬ 
dents, in order that they may prepare themselves for speaking 
in public, and on real business. The meetings, or societies, into 
which they sometimes form themselves for this purpose, are lau¬ 
dable institutions; and, under proper conduct, may serve many 
valuable purposes. They are favourable to knowledge and study, 
by giving occasion to inquiries, concerning those subjects which 
are made the ground of discussion. They produce emulation; 
and gradually inure those who are concerned in them, to some¬ 
what that resembles a public assembly. They accustom them to 
know their own powers, and to acquire a command of themselves 
in speaking; and what is, perhaps, the greatest advantage of all, 
they give them a facility and fluency of expression, and assist them 
in procuring that “ Copia verborum,” which can be acquired by 
no other means but frequent exercise in speaking. 

But the meetings which I have now in my eye, are to be under¬ 
stood of those academical associations, where a moderate number 
of young gentlemen, who are carrying on their studies, and are 
connected by some affinity in the future pursuits which they have 
in view, assemble privately, in order to improve one another, and 
to prepare themselves for those public exhibitions which may 
afterwards fall to their lot. As for those public and promiscuous 
societies, in which multitudes are brought together, who are often 
of low stations and occupations, who are joined by no common 
bond of union, except an absurd rage for public speaking, and have 
no other object in view, but to make a show of their supposed 
talents, they are institutions not merely of an useless, but of an 
hurtful nature. They are in great hazard of proving seminaries of 
licentiousness, petulance, faction, and folly. They mislead those 
who, in their own callings, might be useful members of society, 
into fantastic plans of making a figure on subjects, which divert 
their attention from their proper business, and are widely remote 
from their sphere in life. 

Even the allowable meetings into which students of oratory 
form themselves, stand in need of direction, in order to render 


LKCT. XXXIV. j 


ssr> 


IN ELOQUENCE. 

them useful. If their subjects of discourse be improperly cho¬ 
sen; if they maintain extravagant or indecent topics; if they 
indulge themselves in loose and flimsy declamation, which has 
no foundation in good sense; or accustom themselves to speak 
pertly on all subjects without due preparation, they may improve 
one another in petulance, but in no other thing; and will infal¬ 
libly form themselves to a very faulty and vicious taste in speaking. 
I would, therefore, advise all who are members of such societies, 
in the flrst place, to attend to the choice of their subjects; that 
they be useful and manly, either formed on the course of their studies, 
or on something that has relation to morals and taste, to action and 
life. In the second place, I would advise them to be temperate 
in the practice of speaking; not to speak too often, nor on subjects 
where they are ignorant or unripe; but only, when they have 
proper materials for a discourse, and have digested and thought 
of the subject beforehand. In the third place, when they do 
speak, they should study always to keep good sense and persua¬ 
sion in view, rather than an ostentation of eloquence; and for this 
end I would, in the fourth place, repeat the advice which I gave in 
a former lecture, that they should always choose that side of the ques¬ 
tion to which, in their own judgment, they are most inclined, as the 
right and the true side; and defend it by such arguments as seem to 
them most solid. By these means, they will take the best method 
of forming themselves gradually to a manly, correct, and persuasive 
manner of speaking. 

It now only remains to inquire, of what use may the study 
of critical and rhetorical writers be, for improving one in the prac¬ 
tice of eloquence? These are certainly not to be neglected; 
and yet I dare not say that much is to be expected from them. 
For professed writers on public speaking, we must look chiefly 
among the ancients. In modern times, for reasons which were be¬ 
fore given, popular eloquence, as an art, has never been very much 
the object of study; it has not the same powerful effects among us 
that it had in more democratical states; and therefore has not been 
cultivated with the same care. Among the moderns, though there 
has been a great deal of good criticism on the different kinds of 
writing, yet much has not been attempted on the subject of elo¬ 
quence, or public discourse; and what has been given us of that kind, 
has been drawn mostly from the ancients. Such a writer as Joannes 
Gerardus Vossius, who has gathered into one heap of ponderous lum¬ 
ber, all the trifling, as well as the useful things, that are to be found in 
the Greek and Roman writers, is enough to disgust one with the 
study of eloquence. Among the French, there has been more at¬ 
tempted, on this subject, than among the English. The Bishop of 
Cambray’s writings on eloquence, I before mentioned with honour; 
Rollin, Batteux, Crevier, Gibert, and several other French critics,have 
also written on oratory; but though some of them may be useful, none 
of them are so considerable as to deserve particular recommendation. 

It is to the original ancient writers that we must chiefly have re- 

49 


386 MEANS OF IMPROVING,&c. [lect. xxxrv\ 

course; and it is a reproach to any one, whose profession calls him 
to speak in public, to be unacquainted with them. In all the an¬ 
cient rhetorical writers, there is, indeed, this defect, that they are 
too systematical, as I formerly showed; they aim at doing too much; 
at reducing rhetoric to a complete and perfect art, which may even 
supply invention with materials on every subject; insomuch, that 
one would imagine they expected to form an orator by rule, in as 
mechanical a manner as one would form a carpenter. Whereas, all 
that can, in truth, be done, is to give openings for assisting and 
enlightening taste, and for pointing out to genius the course it ought 
to hold. 

Aristotle laid the foundation for all that was afterwards written on 
the subject. That amazing and comprehensive genius, which does 
honour to human nature, and which gave light unto so many differ¬ 
ent sciences, has investigated the principles of rhetoric vs ith great 
penetration. Aristotle appears to have been the first who took rhe¬ 
toric out of the hands of sophists, and introduced reasoning and 
good sense into the art. Some of the profoundest things which 
have been written on the passions and manners of men, are to be 
found in his Treatise on Rhetoric ; though in this, as in all his wri¬ 
tings, his great brevity often renders him obscure. Succeeding 
Greek rhetoricians, most of whom are now lost, improved on the 
foundation which Aristotle had laid. Two of them still remain, 
Demetrius Phalereus, and Dionysius of Halicarnassus; both write 
on the construction of sentences, and deserve to be perused,* espe¬ 
cially Dionysius, who is a very accurate and judicious critic 

I need scarcely recommend the rhetorical writings of Cicero. 
Whatever, on the subject of eloquence, comes from so great an ora¬ 
tor, must be worthy of attention. His most considerable work on 
that subject is that De Oratore , in three books. None of Cicero’s 
writings are more highly finished than this treatise. The dialogue 
is polite; the characters well supported, and the conduct of the 
whole is beautiful and agreeable. It is, indeed, full of digressions, 
and his rules and observations may be thought sometimes too vague 
and general. Useful things, however, may be learned from it; and 
it is no small benefit to be made acquainted with Cicero’s own idea 
of eloquence. The ‘ Orator ad M. Brutum,’ is also a considerable 
treatise: and, in general, throughout Cicero’s rhetorical works there 
run those high and sublime ideas of eloquence, which are fitted both 
for forming a just taste, and for creating that enthusiasm for the art, 
which is of the greatest consequence for excelling in it. 

But of all the ancient writers on the subject of oratory, the most 
instructive, and most useful, is Quintilian. I know few books which 
abound more with good sense, and discover a greater degree of 
just and accurate taste, than Quintilian’s institutions. Almost all the 
principles of good criticism are to be found in them. He has digest¬ 
ed into excellent order all the ancient ideas concerning rhetoric; 
and is, at the same time, himself an eloquent writer. Though 
some parts of his work contain’too much of the technical and arti¬ 
ficial system then in vogue, and for that reason may be dry and te- 


LE€T. XXXIV.] 


QUESTIONS. 


38“ 


dious, yet I would not advise the omitting to read any part of his 
institutions. To pleaders at the bar, even these technical parts may 
prove of much use. Seldom has any person, of more sound and 
distinct judgment than Quintilian, applied himself to the study of the 
art of oratory. 


QUESTIONS. 


Of what has our author now fully 
treated ; but before finishing this sub¬ 
ject, what suggestions may be of use ? 
To be an eloqunt speaker, is far from 
what? What, however, is a matter 
not very difficult ? Of this, what is ob¬ 
served? What is the idea which our 
author has endeavoured to give of elo¬ 
quence ? What natural and acquired 
talents must concur for carrying this to 
perfection ? About what, then, is there 
little reason to wonder ? Why should 
we not, however, despair ? Of the 
number of orators, of the highest class, 
what is here observed ? What advan¬ 
tage has the study of oratory above that 
of poetry ? In eloquence, what station 
may one possess with dignity; and 
what does eloquence admit ? What is a 
trifling inquiry ? What parts do nature 
and art, respectively, take in attain¬ 
ments of all kinds ? What is certain ? 
By this remark, what does our author 
mean ? How is this illustrated ? After 
these preliminary observations, to what 
do we proceed ? In the first place, what 
stands highest in the order of means; 
and why ? Among whom was this a 
favourite position ? To find what, gives 
pleasure; and what can be clearly 
shown? What is the first consideration 
to support this remark ? What is the 
effect of these? On the other hand, 
what opinion of the speaker will de¬ 
stroy the effect of his eloquence ? 
Though it may entertain and amuse, 
yet how is it viewed ? How is this subject 
further illustrated ? But, lest it should be 
said that this relates only to the charac¬ 
ter of virtue, what does our author fur¬ 
ther observe ? How does it appear that 
nothing is so favourable as virtue to the 
prosecution of honourable studies ? In 
what language has Quintilian touched 
this consideration very properly ? But 
besides this consideration, what other, 
of still higher importance, is there that 
deserves attention ? How is this remark 


illustrated ? On all great subjects and 
occasions, what is the effect of noble 
sentiments ? What do they give to one’s 
discourse ? Here, what will not avail; 
and of an assumed character, what 
is observed ? What only can transmit 
the emotion to others; and hence, what 
follows? What, therefore, is necessary 
for those who would excel in any of 
the higher kinds of oratory ? Whenev¬ 
er these become dead, or callous, what 
will be the consequence? What are 
the sentiments and dispositions particu¬ 
larly requisite for them to cultivate? 
What are extremely averse to elo¬ 
quence ? What does such a disposition 
bespeak ? What are the characteristics 
of a true orator ? Joined with the man ¬ 
ly virtues, he should, at the same time, 
possess what? What must also be stu¬ 
died by every public speaker ? Why is 
modesty essential? But why ought ii 
not to run into excessive timidity ? 
What, in the second place, is most es¬ 
sential to an orator ? What do Cicero 
and Quintilian say on this subject; and 
what are the foundation of all good 
speaking? How is this remark illus¬ 
trated ? What only can attention to 
style, composition, and all the arts of 
speech, do ? Of what must he who is 
to plead at the bar, make himself tho¬ 
roughly master ? To what study must 
he who is speaking from the pulpit, close¬ 
ly apply himself; and why ? What 
course must be pursued by him who 
would fit himself for being a member of 
the supreme council of the nation ? 
Besides the knowledge that properly 
belongs to his profession, with what 
must a public speaker make himself 
acquainted ? What advantage will re¬ 
sult from the study of poetry, and of 
history ? What remarks follow ? What, 
in the third place, is recommended; 
why ; and what must we not imagine ? 
How, only, can eminence be attained ? 
As this is a fixed law of our nature, 







'387 a 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect. xxxiv. 


what is said of him who can believe 
himself an exception to it ? Why is it 
a very wise law of our nature ? Of that 
relaxed state of mind which arises 
rrom indolence or dissipation, what is 
observed ? By what will one be known 
who is destined to excel in any art ? Of 
this, what is observed ? If youth wants 
w333 t ^ ie conse( luence ? In 
the fourth place, what will contribute 
greatly towards improvement ? What 
should everyone who speaks endeavour 
to have ; and what is the effect of sla¬ 
vish imitation ? But, what remark fol¬ 
lows ? What do they do ? 

On what will much depend ? And 
supposing them rightly chosen, about 
what is a farther care requisite; and 
why ? What should we study to ac¬ 
quire ? Why should not one attach him- 
wu t0 ° c3osel y t0 . an y single model ? 
W hat should be his business ? What is 
here not expected ? Of ancient and 
modern writers, from whom benefit may 
he derived, what is here observed? 
What does our author own is to be re- 
gretted ? Among the French, in the 
( iinerent departments of oratory, whose 
names are mentioned ? Concerning the 
imitation of the style of any favourite 
author, to what distinction must we 
attend ? Of these, what is observed ; 
and how is this illustrated ? What style 
does speaking admit; and of it, what is 
arther observed ? Hence, what fol¬ 
lows? What example of illustration is 
given? Of some kinds of public dis¬ 
course, what is observed? But still 
there is what ? To what does some au¬ 
thors manner of writing approach more 
nearly than others; and what is the 
consequence? Who are of this class? 
What does the Dean, throughout all his 
writings, maintain; and of this, what is 
observed ? What is the character of 
-Lord Bohngbroke’s style ? What ap¬ 
pearance do all his political writings 
carry ? What qualities do they posses!; 
and of them, what is to be regretted? 

In the fifth place, what will be admit¬ 
ted to be a necessary means of improve¬ 
ment ? What sort of composition is the 
most useful ? What advice is here 
given ? Of him who has it for his aim 
to write and speak correctly, what is 
observed ? By this remark, what is not 
meant. To what would this form him ? 
But what is to be observed ? Of the 
becoming manner, what is observed; 
nut what does it require to seize the 


just idea of it ? Of this idea, when ac- 
quired what use should we make ? 
Why have exercises in speaking al- 
ways been recommended to students ? 
ur the societies into which they some¬ 
times form themselves for this purpose, 
what is observed ? How do they become 
favourable} to knowledge and study? 
What do they produce ; and to what 
do they^gradually inure those who are 
engaged in them ? To what do they 
accustom them; and what is, per¬ 
haps, their greatest advantage ? What 
meetings are here to be understood ? 
What institutions are not merely use¬ 
less, but hurtful in their nature? Of 
proving what, are they in great ha¬ 
zard . Into what do they mislead those 
who, m their own calling, might be use¬ 
ful members of society? Even of the 
allowable meetings into which students 
of oratory form themselves, what is ob¬ 
served? Under what circumstances 
may they improve themselves in petu¬ 
lance, but infallibly form themselves to 
a very faulty and vicious taste in speak- 
+ n ^' ii ^^ a ^ a( lvice is, therefore, given 
to all who are members of such socie- 
ties ? \V hat will be the effect of pursu¬ 
ing this course? What inquiry, only, 
now remains? °f these, what is obsere 
ved . For professed writers on public 
speaking, where must we look? Of 
popular eloquence among the moderns, 
what is observed ? What is said of Jo¬ 
annes Gerardus Vossius ? Among the 
rench, the names of what writers on 
th!s subject appear; and what is said 
of them? To whom, chiefly, must we 
have recourse; and what remark fol- 
lows . What defect, however, is there, 

wn ! • e , aacient rhetorical writers? 
What is all that can, in truth, be done? 
Who laid the foundation for all that 
was afterwards written on this subject • 
and of him what is observed ? He was 
the first that did what ? What is said 
of his Treatise on Rhetoric ? Of suc- 

w e n k rhetoricia ^ what is ob- 
serv ed ? What two still remain and 

remarks ° f ‘ hem? What pe’nej 
remarks are made on Cicero’s rhetori- 

cal writings? Of them, which are the 

S f or 5 an<, what is «*>'<! of 
thp“ lh -2f. a '* the ancient writers on 

ureftd bj ond°. f n 0rat0ry ’ who is the most 
seful, and the most instructive? Of 

&d?“ dofhktai --- ha ' 






LECT. XXXV. ] COMPARATIVE MERIT, &c. 387 b 


ANALYSIS. 

Preliminary observations. 

Means of improvivg in eloquence. 

1. Moral qualifications. 

a. Virtue favourable to the prosecu¬ 
tion of honourable studies. 

E. The most affecting sentiments flow 
from virtuous hearts. 

2. A fund of knowledge requisite. 


3. Industry and application necessary. 

4. Attention to the best models recom¬ 

mended. 

a. The distinction between written and 
spoken language. 

5. Frequency of composing and speaking. 
A. Directions for the same. 

6. The study of critical writers requisite. 
a. Ancient original writers to be con¬ 
sulted. 


LECTURE XXXV, 

COMPARATIVE MERIT OF THE ANCIENTS AND THE 
MODERNS.—HISTORICAL WRITING. 

I have now finished that part of the course which respected ora¬ 
tory, or public speaking, and which, as far as the subject allowed, I 
have endeavoured to form into some sort of system. It remains, that 
l enter on the consideration of the most distinguished kinds of com¬ 
position, both in prose and verse, and point out the principles of 
criticism relating to them. This part of the work might easily be 
drawn out to a great length ; but I am sensible that critical discus¬ 
sions, when they are pursued too far, become both trifling and te¬ 
dious. I shall study, therefore, to avoid unnecessary prolixity; and 
hope, at the same time, to omit nothing that is very material under 
the several heads. 

I shall follow the same method here which I have all along pur¬ 
sued, and without which, these lectures could not be entitled to any 
attention ; that is, I shall freely deliver my own opinion on every 
subject; regarding authority no farther than as it appears to me 
founded on good sense and reason. In former lectures, as 1 have of¬ 
ten quoted several of the ancient classics for their beauties, so I have 
also, sometimes, pointed out their defects. Hereafter, I shall have 
occasion to do the same, when treating of their writings under more 
general heads. It may he fit that, before I proceed farther, I make 
some observations on the comparative merit of the ancients and the 
moderns ; in order that we may be able to ascertain, rationally, upon 
what foundation that deference rests, which has so generally been 
paid to the ancients. These observations are the more necessary, 
as this subject has given rise to no small controversy in the republic 
of letters ; and they may, with propriety, be made now, as they will 
serve to throw light on some things I have afterwards to deliver, con¬ 
cerning different kinds of composition. 

It is a remarkable phenomenon, and one which has often employ¬ 
ed the speculations of curious men, that writers and artists, most 
distinguished for their parts and genius, have generally appeared in 
considerable numbers at a time. Some ages have been remarkably 
barren in them ; while, at other periods, nature seems to have exert¬ 
ed herself with a more than ordinary effort, and to have poured 
them forth with a profuse fertility. Various reasons have been as¬ 
signed for this. Some of the moral causes lie obvious ; such as fa- 
3 K 





388 


COMPARATIVE MERIT OP THE [lect. xxxv. 

vourable circumstances of government and of manners; encourage¬ 
ment from great men; emulation excited among the men of genius. 
But as these have been thought inadequate to the whole effect, phy¬ 
sical causes have been also assigned ; and the Abbe du Bos, in his 
reflections on poetry and painting, has collected a great many obser¬ 
vations on the influence which the air, the climate, and other such 
natural causes, may be supposed to have upon genius. But what¬ 
ever the causes be, the fact is certain, that there have been certain 
periods or ages of the woild much more distinguished than others, 
for the extraordinary productions of genius. 

Learned men have marked out four of these happy ages. The 
first is the Grecian age, which commenced near the time of the Pe¬ 
loponnesian war, and extended till the time of Alexander the 
Great; within which period, we have Herodotus, Thucydides, 
Xenophon, Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Demosthenes, Aeschines, Ly¬ 
sias, Isocrates, Pindar, Aeschylus, Euripides, Sophocles, Aristopha¬ 
nes, Menander, Anacreon, Theocritus, Lysippus, Apelles, Phidias, 
Praxiteles. The second, is the Roman age, included nearly within 
the days of Julius Caesar and Augustus ; affording us Catullus, Lu¬ 
cretius, Terence, Virgil, Horace, Tibullus, Propertius, Ovid, Phae- 
drus,Caesar, Cicero, Livy, Sallust, Varro, and Vitruvius. The third 
age is, that of the restoration of learning, under the Popes Julius II. 
and Leo X.; when flourished Ar iosto, Tasso, Sannazarius, Vida, 
Machiavel, Guicciardini, Davila, Erasmus, Paul Jovius, Michael 
Angelo, Raphael, Titian. The fourth comprehends the age of Louis 
the XIV. and Queen Anne, when flourished in France, Corneille, 
Racine, De Retz, Moliere, Boileau, Fontaine, Baptiste, Rousseau, 
Bossuet, Fenelon, Bourdaloue, Pascall, Malebranche, Massillon, 
Bruyere, Bayle, Fontenelle. Vertot; and in England, Dryden, 
Pope, Addison, Prior, Swift, Parnell, Arbuthnot, Congreve, Otway, 
Young, Rowe, Atterbury, Shaftesbury, Bolingbroke, Tillotson, 
Temple, Boyle, Locke, Newton, Clarke. 

When we speak comparatively of the ancients and the moderns, 
we generally mean by the ancients, such as lived in the two first of 
these periods, including also one or two who lived more early, as 
Homer in particular; and bvthe moderns, those who flourished in 
the two last of these ages, including also the eminent writers down 
to our own times. Any comparison between these two classes of 
writers, must be necessarily vague and loose, as they comprehend 
so many, and of such different kinds and degrees of genius. But 
the comparison is generally made to turn by those who are fond of 
making it, upon two or three of the most distinguished in each class. 
With much heat it was agitated in France, between Boileau and 
Mad. Dacier, on the one hand for the ancients, and Perrault. and 
La Motte, on the other, for the moderns; and it was carried to ex¬ 
tremes on both sides. To this day, among men of taste and letters, 
vvefind a leaning to one or other side. A few reflections may throw 
light upon the subject, and enable us to discern upon what grounds 
we are to rest our judgment in this controversy. 

Tf any one, at this day, in the eighteenth century, takes upon him 


lect. xxxv.] ANCIENTS AND THE MODERNS. 


389 


to decry the ancient classics; if he pretends to have discovered 
that Homer and Virgil are poets of inconsiderable merit, and that 
Demosthenes and Cicero are not great orators, vve may boldly ven¬ 
ture to tell such a man, that he is come too late with his discovery. 
The reputation of such writers is established upon a foundation too 
solid, to be now shaken by any arguments whatever; for it is esta¬ 
blished upon that almost universal taste of mankind, proved and tri¬ 
ed throughout the succession of so many ages. Imperfections in 
their works he may indeed point out; passages that are faulty he 
may show; for where is the human work that is perfect? But, if he 
attempts to discredit their works in general, or to prove that the re¬ 
putation which they have gained is, on the whole, unjust, there is an 
argument against him, which is equal to full demonstration. He 
must be in the wrong; for human nature is against him. In matters 
of taste, such as poetry and oratory, to whom does the appeal lie? 
where is the standard ? and where the authority of the last decision? 
where is it to be looked for, but, as I formerly showed, in those 
feelings and sentiments that are found, on the most extensive exami¬ 
nation, to be the common sentiments and feelings of men? These 
have been fully consulted on this head. The public, the unprejudic¬ 
ed public, has been tried and appealed to for many centuries, and 
throughout almost all civilized nations. It has pronounced its ver¬ 
dict; it has given its sanction to those writers; and from this tribu¬ 
nal there lies no farther appeal. 

In matters of mere reasoning, the world may be long in an error; 
and may be convinced of the error by stronger reasonings, when 
produced. Positions that depend upon science, upon knowledge, 
and matters of fact, may be overturned according as science and 
knowledge are enlarged, and new matters of fact are brought to light. 
For this reason, a system of philosophy receives no sufficient sanc¬ 
tion from its antiquity, or long currency. The world, as it grows 
older, may be justly expected to become, if not wiser, at least more 
knowing; and supposing it doubtful, whether Aristotle, or Newton, 
were the greater genius, yet Newton’s philosophy may prevail over 
Aristotle’s, by means of later discoveries, to which Aristotle was a 
stranger. But nothing of this kind holds as to matters of taste ; 
which depend not on the progress of knowledge and science, but 
upon sentiment and feeling. It is in vain to think of undeceiving 
mankind, with respect to errors committed here, as in philosophy. 
For the universal feeling of mankind is the natural feeling; and be¬ 
cause it is the natural, it is for that reason, the right feeling. The 
reputation of the Iliad and the iEneid must therefore stand upon 
sure ground, because it has stood so long; though that of the Aris¬ 
totelian or Platonic philosophy, every one is at liberty to call in 
question. 

It is in vain also to allege, that the reputation of the ancient po¬ 
ets, and orators, is owing to authority, to pedantry, and to the preju¬ 
dices of education, transmitted from age to age. These, it is true, 
are the authors put into our hands at schools and colleges, and by 
that means we have now an early prepossession in their favour; but 


390 


COMPARATIVE MERIT OF THE [lect. xxxv. 


how came they to gain the possession of colleges and schools? Plain¬ 
ly, by the high fame which these had among their own cotemporaries. 
For the Greek and Latin were not always dead languages. There 
was a time when Homer, and Virgil, and Horace, were viewed in 
the same light as we now view Dryden, Pope, and Addison. It is 
not to commentators and universities, that the classics are indebted 
for their fame. They became classics and school-books, in con¬ 
sequence of the high admiration which was paid them by the best 
judges in their own country and nation. As early as the days of 
Juvenal, who wrote under the reign of Domitian, we find Virgil and 
Horace become the standard books in the education of youth. 

Quot stabant pueri, cum totus decolor esset 

Flaccus, &. haereret nigro fuligo Maroni.* Sat. 7. 

From this general principle, then, of the reputation of the great 
ancient classics being so early, so lasting, so universal among all the 
most polished nations, we may justly and boldly infer that their re¬ 
putation cannot be wholly unjust, but must have a solid foundation 
in the merit of their writings. 

Let us guard, however, against a blind and implicit veneration for 
the ancients in every thing. I have opened the general principle, 
which must go far in instituting a fair comparison between them and 
the moderns. Whatever superiority the ancients may have had in 
point of genius, yet in all arts, where the natural progress of know¬ 
ledge has had room to produce any considerable effects, the mo¬ 
derns cannot but have some advantage. The world may, in certain 
respects, be considered as a person, who must needs gain somewhat 
by advancing in years. Its improvements have not, I confess, been 
always in proportion to the centuries that have passed over it; for, 
during the course of some ages, it has sunk as into a total lethargy. 
Yet, when roused from that lethargy, it has generally been able to 
avail itself more or less, of former discoveries. At intervals, there 
arose some happy genius, who could both improve on what had 
gone before, and invent something new. With the advantage of a 
proper stock of materials, an inferior genius can make greater pro¬ 
gress, than a much superior one, to whom these materials are want¬ 
ing. 

Hence, in natural philosophy, astronomy, chemistry, and other 
sciences that depend on an extensive knowledge and observation of 
facts, modern philosophers have an unquestionable superiority over 
the ancient. I am inclined also to think, that in matters of pure 
reasoning, there is more precision among the moderns, than in some 
instances there was among the ancients; owing perhaps to a more 
extensive literary intercourse, which has improved and sharpened 
the faculties of men. In some studies too, that relate to taste and 


* “ Then thou art bound to smell, on either hand, 

As many stinking lamps, as school-boys stand, 

When Horace could not read in his own sully’d book, 

And Virgil’s sacred page was all besmear’d with smoke.” Dryden, 



lect. xxxv.] ANCIENTS AND THE MODERNS. 


391 


fine writing, which is our object, the progress of society must, in 
equity, be admitted to have given us some advantages. For instance, 
in history; there is certainly more political knowledge in several 
European nations at present, than there was in ancient Greece and 
Rome. We are better acquainted with the nature of government, 
because we have seen it under a greater variety of forms and revolu¬ 
tions. The world is more laid open than it was in former times; 
commerce is greatly enlarged ; more countries are civilized ; posts 
are every where established; intercourse is become more easy; and 
the knowledge of facts, by consequence, more attainable. All these 
are great advantages to historians; of which, in some measure, as 
I shall afterward show, they have availed themselves. In the more 
complex kinds of poetry, likewise, we may have gained somewhat, 
perhaps,in point of regularity and accuracy. In dramatic perform¬ 
ances, having the advantage of the ancient models, we may be 
allowed to have made some improvements in the variety of the 
characters, the conduct of the plot, attention to probability, and to 
decorums. 

These seem to me the chief points of superiority we can plead 
above the ancients. Neither do they extend as far as might be 
imagined at first view. For if the strength of genius be on one 
side, it will go far, in works of taste at least, to counterbalance all 
the artificial improvements which can be made by greater know¬ 
ledge and correctness. To return to our comparison of the age of 
the world with that of a man; it may be said, not altogether with¬ 
out reason, that if the advancing age of the world bring along with 
it more science and more refinement, there belong, however, to its 
earlier periods, more vigour, more fire, more enthusiasm of genius. 
This appears indeed to form the characteristical difference between 
the ancient poets, orators, and historians, compared with the modern. 
Among the ancients, we find higher conceptions, greater simplicity, 
more original fancy. Among the moderns, sometimes more art and 
correctness, but feebler exertions of genius. But, though this be in 
general a mark of distinction between the ancients and moderns, 
yet, like all general observations, it must be understood with some 
exceptions; for in point of poetical fire and original genius, Milton 
and Shakspeare are inferior to no poets in any age. 

It is proper to observe, that there were some circumstances 
in ancient times, very favourable to those uncommon efforts of 
genius which were then exerted. Learning was a much more 
rare and singular attainment in the earlier ages, than it is at present. 
It was not to schools and universities that the persons applied, who 
sought to distinguish themselves. They had not this easy recourse. 
They travelled for their improvement into distant countries, to 
Egypt, and to the East. They inquired after all the monuments 
of learning there. They conversed with priests, philosophers, 
poets, with all who had acquired any distinguished fame. They 
returned to their own country full of the discoveries which they 
had made, and fired by the new and uncommon objects which 
they had seen. Their knowledge and improvements cost them 


392 COMPARATIVE MERIT OF THE [lect. xxxv 

more labour, raised in them more enthusiasm, were attended with 
higher rewards and honours, than in modern days. Fewer had the 
means and opportunities of distinguishing themselves; but such as 
did distinguish themselves, were sure of acquiring that fame, and 
even veneration, which is, of all other rewards, the greatest incentive 
to genius. Herodotus read his history to all Greece assembled at 
the Olympic games, and was publicly crowned. In the Peloponnesian 
war, when the Athenian army was defeated in Sicily, and the 
prisoners were ordered to be put to death, such of them as could re¬ 
peat any verses of Euripides were saved, from honour to that poet, 
who was a citiz • . of Athens. These were testimonies of public 
regard, far beyond what modern manners confer upon genius. 

In our times, good writing is considered as an attainment neither 
so difficult, nor so high and meritorious. 

Scribitnus indocti, doctique, Pogmata passim.* 

We write much more supinely, and at our ease, than the ancients. 
To excel, is become a much less considerable object. Less effort, 
less exertion is required, because we have many more assistances 
than they. Printing has rendered all books common, and easy 
to be had. Education for any of the learned professions can 
be carried on without much trouble. Hence a mediocrity of 
genius is spread over all. But to rise beyond that, and to overtop 
the crowd, is given to few. The multitude of assistances which 
we have for all kinds of composition, in the opinion of Sir William 
Temple, a very competent judge, rather depresses, than favours, 
the exertions of native genius. “It is very possible,” says that 
ingenious author, in his Essay on the Ancients and Moderns, “ that 
men may lose rather than gain by these; may lessen the force of 
their own genius, by forming it upon that of others ; may have 
less knowledge of their own, for contenting themselves with that 
of those before them. So a man that only translates, shall never 
be a poet; so people that trust to others’ charity, rather than 
their own industry, will be always poor. Who can tell,” he adds, 
whether learning may not even weaken invention, in a man 
that has great advantages from nature? Whether the weight 
and number of so many other men’s thoughts and notions may 
not suppress his own; as heaping on wood sometimes suppresses 
a little spark, that would otherwise have grown into a flame ? The 
strength of mind, as well as of body, grows more from the warmth 
of exercise, than of clothes; nay, too much of this foreign heat, 
rather makes men faint, and their constitutions weaker than they 
would be without them.” J 

From whatever cause it happens, so it is, that among some 
of the ancient writers, we must look for the highest models in 
most of the kinds of elegant composition For accurate think¬ 
ing and enlarged ideas, in several parts of philosophy, to the 


* “ Now every desp’rate blockhead dares to write; 
Verse is the trade of ev’ry living wight ” 


Francis, 



lect. xxxv.] ANCIENTS AND THE MODERNS. 


3 93 


moderns we ought chiefly to have recourse. Of correct and 
finished writing in some works of t^ste, they may afford useful pat¬ 
terns : but for all that belongs to original genius, to spirited, master¬ 
ly, and high execution, our best and most happy ideas are, generally 
speaking, drawn from the ancients. In epic poetry, for instance, 
Homerand Virgil, to this day, stand not within many degrees of any 
rival. Orators, such as Cicero and Demosthenes, we have none. 
In history, notwithstanding some defects, which I am afterwards to 
mention in the ancient historical plans, it may be safely asserted, that 
we have no such historical narration, so elegant, so picturesque, so 
animated, and interesting,as that of Herodotus, Thucydides, Xen¬ 
ophon, Livy, Tacitus, and Sallust. Although the conduct of the 
drama may be admitted to have received some improvements, 
yet for poetry and sentiment we have nothing to equal Sophocles 
and Euripides ; nor any dialogue in comedy, that comes up to the 
correct, graceful, and elegant simplicity of Terence. We have 
no such love elegies as those of Tibullus ; no such pastorals as some 
of Theocritus’s; and for lyric poetry, Horace stands quite unri¬ 
valled. The name of Horace cannot be mentioned without a 
particular encomium. That “ Curiosa Felicitas” which Petronius 
has remarked in his expression ; the sweetness, elegance, and spirit 
of many of his odes, the thorough knowledge of the world, the 
excellent sentiments, and natural easy manner which distinguish 
his satires and epistles, all contribute to render him one of those 
very few authors whom one never tires of reading; and from whom 
alone, were every other monument destroyed, we should be led to 
form a very high idea of the taste and genius of the Augustan age. 

To all such, then, as wish to form their taste and nourish their 
genius, let me warmly recommend the assiduous study of the an¬ 
cient classics, both Greek and Roman. 

Nocturnd versate manu, versate diurn&.* 

Without a considerable acquaintance with them, no man can 
be reckoned a polite scholar; and he will want many assistances 
for writing and speaking well, which the knowledge of such au¬ 
thors would afford him. Any one has great reason to suspect his 
own taste, who receives little or no pleasure from the perusal of 
writings, which so many ages and nations have consented in hold¬ 
ing up as objects of admiration. And I am persuaded it will 
be found, that in proportion as the ancients are generally studied 
and admired, or are unknown and disregarded in any country, 
good taste and good composition will flourish, or decline. They 
are commonly none but the ignorant or superficial, who undervalue 
them. 

At the same time, a just and high regard for the prime writers 
of antiquity is to be always distinguished, from that contempt of 
every thing which is modern, and that blind veneration for all that 
has been written in Greek or Latin, which belongs only to pe- 


* “ Read them by day, and study them by niprht,” 

50 


Francis 



394 


HISTORICAL WRITING. [lect.xxxv. 


dants. Among the Greek and Roman authors, some assuredly 
deserve much higher regard £han others; nay, some are of no 
great value. Even the best of them lie open occasionally to just 
censure; for to no human performance is it given to be absolutely 
perfect. We may, we ought therefore to read them with a dis¬ 
tinguishing eye, so as to propose for imitation their beauties only; 
and it is perfectly consistent with just and candid criticism, to find 
fault with parts, while, at the same time, it admires the whole. 

After these reflections on the ancients and moderns, I proceed to 
a critical examination of the most distinguished kinds of composition, 
and the characters of those writers who have excelled in them, 
whether modern or ancient. 

The most general division of the different kinds of composition 
is, in those written in prose, and those written in verse; which 
certainly require to be separately considered, because subject 
to separate laws. I begin, as is most natural, with writings in prose. 
Of orations, or public discourses of all kinds, I have already treated 
fully. The remaining species of prose compositions, which assume 
any such regular form, as to fall under the cognizance of criticism, 
seem to be chiefly these: historical writing, philosophical writing, 
epistolary writing, and fictitious history. Historical composition 
shall be first considered; and, as it is an object of dignity, I pur¬ 
pose to treat of it at some length. 

As it is the office of an orator to persuade, it is that of an histo¬ 
rian to record truth for the instruction of mankind. This is the pro¬ 
per object and end of history, from which may be deduced many of 
the laws relating to it; and if this object were always kept in view, 
it would prevent many of the errors into which persons are apt to 
fall concerning this species of composition. As the primary end of 
history is to record truth,—impartiality, fidelity, and accuracy, are 
the fundamental qualities of an historian. He must neither be a 
panegyrist, nor a satirist. He must not enter into faction, nor give 
scope to affection: but, contemplating past events and characters 
with a cool and dispassionate eye, must present to his readers a faith¬ 
ful copy of human nature. 

At the same time, it is not every record of facts, however true, 
that is entitled to the name of history; but such a record as enables us 
to apply the transactions of former ages for our own instruction. The 
facts ought to be momentous and important: represented in con¬ 
nexion with their causes, traced to their effects, and unfolded in 
clear and distinct order. For wisdom is the great end of history. It 
is designed to supply the want of experience. Though it enforce 
not its instructions with the same authority, yet it furnishes us with 
a greater variety of instructions, than it is possible for experience to 
afford, in the course of the longest life. Its object is to enlarge our 
views of the human character, and to give full exercise to our judg¬ 
ment on human affairs. It must not therefore be a tale, calculated 
to please only, and addressed to the fancy. Gravity and dignity are 
essential characteristics of history; no light ornaments are to be em¬ 
ployed, no flippancy of style, no quaintness of wit But the writer 


lect. xxxv.] HISTORICAL WRITING. 


395 


must sustain the character of a wise man, writing for the instruction 
of posterity; one who has studied to inform himself well, who has 
pondered his subject with care, and addresses himself to our judg¬ 
ment, rather than to our imagination. At the same time,historical 
writing is by no means inconsistent with ornamented arid spirited 
narration. It admits of much high ornament and elegance ; but the 
ornaments must be always consistent with dignity ; they should not 
appear to be sought after; but to rise naturally from a mind animated 
by the events which it records. 

Historical composition is understood to comprehend under it, an¬ 
nals, memoirs, lives. But these are its inferior subordinate species; 
on which I shall hereafter make some reflections, when I shall have 
first considered what belongs to a regular and legitimate work of 
history. Such a work is chiefly of two kinds, either theentire history 
of some state or kingdom through its different revolutions, such as 
Livy’s Roman History ; or the history of some one great event, or 
some portion or period of time which may be considered as making a 
whole by itself; such as, Thucydides’s History of the Peloponne¬ 
sian War, Davila’s History of the Civil Wars of France, or Claren¬ 
don’s of those of England. 

In the conduct and management of his subject, the first attention 
requisite in an historian, is to give it as much unity as possible ; that 
is, his history should not consist of separate unconnected parts mere¬ 
ly, but should be bound together by some connecting principle, 
which shall make the impression on the mind of something that is 
one, whole, and entire. It is inconceivable how great an effect this, 
when happily executed, has upon a reader, and it is surprising that 
some able writers of history have not attended to it more. Whether 
pleasure or instruction be the end sought by the study of history, 
eitherof them is enjoyed to much greater advantage, when the mind 
has always before it the progress of some one great plan or sys¬ 
tem of action; when there is some point or centre, to which we 
can refer the various facts related by the historian. 

In general histories, which record the affairs of a whole nation or 
empire throughout several ages, this unity, I confess, must be more 
imperfect. Yet even there, some degree of it can be preserved by a 
skilful writer. For though the whole, taken together, be very com ¬ 
plex, yet the great constituent parts of it, form so many subordinate 
wholes, when taken by themselves; each of which can be treated 
both as complete within itself, and as connected with what goes be¬ 
fore and follows. In the history of a monarchy, for instance, every 
reign should have itsown unity; a beginning, amiddle,and an end, to 
the system of affairs; while, at the same time, we are taught to 
discern how that system of affairs rose from the preceding, and 
how it is inserted into what follows. We should be able to trace all 
the secret links of the chain, which binds together remote, and seem¬ 
ingly unconnected events. In some kingdoms of Europe, it was the 
plan of many succeeding princes to reduce the power of their no¬ 
bles ; and during several reigns, most of the leading actions had a 
reference to this end. In other states, the rising power of the com- 


HISTORICAL WRITING. [lect. xxxv. 

mons, influenced for a tract of time the course and connexion of 
public affairs. Among the Romans, the leading principle was a 
gradual extension of conquest, and the attainment of universal em¬ 
pire. The continual increase of their power, advancing towards 
this end from small beginnings, and by a sort of regular progressive 
plan, furnished to Livy a happy subject for historical unity, in the 
midst of a great variety of transactions. 

Of all the ancient general historians, the one who had the most 
exact idea of this quality of historical composition, though, in other 
respects not an elegant writer, is Polybius. This appears from the 
account he gives of his own plan in the beginning of his third book; 
observing that the subject of which he had undertaken to write, is, 
throughout the whole of it, one action, one great spectacle; how, 
and by what causes, all the parts of the habitable world became sub¬ 
ject to the Roman empire. ‘This action/ says he, ‘is distinct in 
its beginning, determined in its duration, and clear in its final ac¬ 
complishment; therefore, I think it of use, to give a general view 
beforehand, of the chief constituent parts which make up this 
whole.’ In another place he congratulates himself on his good 
fortune, in having a subject for history, which allowed such variety 
of parts to be united under one view; remarking, that before this 
period, the affairs of the world were scattered, and without connex¬ 
ion; whereas, in the times of which he writes, all the great transac¬ 
tions of the world tended and verged to one point, and were capa¬ 
ble of being considered as parts of one system. Whereupon he 
adds several very judicious observations, concerning the usefulness 
of writing history upon such a comprehensive, and connected plan; 
comparing the imperfect degree of knowledge, which is afforded by 
particular facts, without general views, to the imperfect idea which 
one would entertain of an animal, who had beheld its separate parts 
only, without having ever seen its entire form and structure.* 

Such as write the history of some particular great transaction, as 
confine themselves to one era, or one portion of the history of a 
nation, have so great advantages for preserving historical unity, that 
they are inexcusable if they fail in it. Sallust’s histories of the 
Catilinarian and Jugurthine wars, Xenophon’s Cyropoedia, and his 
retreat of the ten thousand, are instances of particular histories, 
where the unity of historical narration is perfectly well maintained. 
Thucydides, otherwise a writer of great strength and dignity, has 
failed much, in this article, in his history of the Peloponnesian war. 

* KxQuhtt /xiv yxg tpxotyt S'oKoZirtv ot 7rt<aruafx'i\ot <P/i ns k xrx juggoc iroptcts /utrptus 
ffvvo+if&ai rd oU, mpxrrMov rt 7r*r%etv, as ft tt rtns *■** K ** S ™A**ros 

yiyovo to? ftippoptim rx fxtpt, 3W At evot, vopx'^ottv Uxtuc t ytynsQit me h'PytU t? 

ctvrou kxi u yxg rts dvrux pxx^x avails kxi rixttov avbts drlyxe- 

Xfxivo? to £«ov, ko> rt ttfttft t» ms tUTr^mlx, KXTrttrx nrxxtv g.r iS'ukvvoi rots 

earns tKtlms, r*x iu < «*dvrxs dvreus o/xoKoyteretv fto n kxi yixv tom rt ns 

ctKHvticLS drehetTrovro^ TrgocrQtv, kxi <&x£X7rh»o-iov rots om^eerlouirtv nrcu. ’iwotxv f*\v yet? 
KxCttv xtto s? rft o\av ftvxrov. tTrtmfAnv ft teat yvavvv xretm I x*tv dJuvxrov. fto 
nxvltxas 0p*xu vOjU/reov <rv^xx\t<r3xt rft kxtx ptipos iro^txv *r §0 ? nv rft o\av 
tfxTrimxv kxi <rriuv,ix. ptiv rotyt ns xvrxvrov s <rvpxv\oK»c kxi TraPxQfte oc, 

rrtf o^owtwtoc kxi ftx^opoms ft ns tepUoflo K xt ftvudun Kxrorlturxs x/ux xxt r « 
£p»ripov kxi ro rtgTryoVy sk mstro$Us hxCtlv. Polye. Histor. Prim 




lect. xxxv.] HISTORICAL WRITING. 


397 


No one great object is properly pursued, and kept in view; but bis 
narration is cut down into small pieces; his history is divided by 
summers and winters; and we are every nowand then leaving trans¬ 
actions unfinished, and are hurried from place to place, from Athens 
to Sicily, from thence to Peloponnesus, to Corcyra, to Mitylene, 
that we may be told of what is going on in all these places. We 
have a great many disjointed parts and scattered limbs, which with 
difficulty we collect into one body; and through this faulty distribu¬ 
tion and management of his subject, that judicious historian becomes 
more tiresome, and less agreeable than he would otherwise be. For 
these reasons he is severely censured by one of the best critics of 
antiquity, Dionysius of Halicarnassus.* 

The historian must not indeed neglect chronological order, with 
a view to render his narration agreeable. He must give a distinct 
account of the dates, and of the coincidence of facts. But he is 
not under the necessity of breaking off always in the middle of 
transactions, in order to inform us of what washappeningelsewhere 
at the same time. He discovers no art, if he cannot form some con¬ 
nexion among the affairs which he relates, so as to introduce them 
in a proper train. He will soon tire the reader, if he goes on re¬ 
cording, in strict chronological order, a multitude of separate trans¬ 
actions, connected by nothing else, but their happening at the same 
time. 

Though the history of Herodotus be of greater compass than that 
of Thucydides, and comprehend a much greater variety of dissimilar 
parts, he has been more fortunate in joining them together; and 
digesting them into order. Hence he is a more pleasing writer, and 
gives a stronger impression of his subject; though, in judgment and 


* The censure which Dionysius passes upon Thucydides, is, in several articles, 
carried too far. He blames him for the choice of his subject, as not sufficiently 
splendid and agreeable, and as abounding too much in crimes and melancholy 
events, on which he observes that Thucydides loves to dwell. He is partial to 
Herodotus, whom, both for the choice and the conduct of his subject, he prefers 
to the other historian. It is true, that the subject of Thucydides wants the gay- 
ety and splendour of that of Herodotus; but it is not deficient in dignity. The 
Peloponnesian war was the contest between two great rival powers, the Athenian 
and Lacedemonian states, for the empire of Greece. Herodotus loves to dwell on 
prosperous incidents, and retains somewhat of the amusing manner of the ancient 
poetical historians; but Herodotus wrote to the imagination. Thucydides writes 
to the understanding. He was a grave reflecting man, well acquainted with hu¬ 
man life; and the melancholy events and catastrophes which he records, are often 
both the most interesting parts of history, and the most improving to the heart. 

The critic’s observations on the faulty distribution which Thucydides makes of 
his subject, are better founded, and his preference of Herodotus in this respect is 
not unjust— fxtv to/c %qgvgic xnoxadav, ’HgotToTec Jg Tat/? <arg^/o^at/c Tarv 
iw^xy/u-XTcev, yiyvt-xM ©fcx.vsf;<f»c dn<pns km tf'uT'wa^xKOMiburoi voKXcev kxtx to xoro 
3-ggo? km ’^ttuaivx •ytyvtof/.WGev tv «f/a<pogst/c tctto/c, HW/TgAg/c Tat? 'or^oTsic JtaTst- 

K17TC i)V, iXtS'ODV X.TVt'Vtl TO)V JtotTJt TO atUTO •S’ggOf KXt yttfXGCV at yiyVGfAtVW. 'TVKXVUfXtQx <f# 
»atSat^rs§ g/>co?, km tf ucKOKw; to/c <f«A«^/evo/? 'aratgatjcoAe6# ( ugv. OkkuMh (/.ixv 

vvroQ g?/v KxGavTi 7roh Aat 7roi»sau fxt^n to tv toi/u*. <fg t*c ttg AAat? kxi uS'tv tvo- 

kuiac irrebto-a;' (ar^otiKouivu), eniuQcevGv tv <rccfxx ‘vre7roi»Ktvx/. —With regard to style, 
Dionysius gives Thucydides the just praise of energy and brevity; but censures him 
on many occasions, not without reason, for harsh and obscure expression, deficient in 
smoothness and ease. 



398 


[lect. xxxv 


QUESTIONS. 


accuracy, much inferior to Thucydides. With digressions and epi¬ 
sodes he abounds ; but when these have any connexion with the 
main subject, and are inserted professedly as episodes, the unity of 
the whole is less violated by them, than by a broken and scattered 
narration of the principal story. Among the moderns, the President 
Thuanus has, by attempting to make the history of his own times 
too comprehensive, fallen into the same error, of loading the reader 
with a great variety of unconnected facts, going on together in dif¬ 
ferent parts of the world; an historian otherwise of great probity, 
candour, and excellent understanding ; but through this want of 
unity, more tedious, and less interesting, than he would otherwise 
have been. 


Q,UESTIOtfS. 


What has our author now finished; 
and what has he endeavoured to do ? 
What remains to be done ? Of this part 
of the work, what is observed ; but of 
what is our author sensible? What 
will he, therefore, study to do ? What 
method will he here follow ? In former 
lectures, what has been done; and 
what remark follows? On what does 
our author think it necessary to make 
some observations, before he proceeds 
farther; and why? Why are these 
observations the more necessary; and 
why may they with propriety be 
made now? What is a remarkable 
phenomenon ? How is this illustrated ? 
What moral causes, for this, are obvi¬ 
ous ? But as these have been thought 
inadequate to the whole effect, what, 
also, have been assigned; and what has 
been done by the Abbe du Bos ? But, 
whatever the cause be, what fact is 
certain? How many of these happy 
ages have learned men marked out ? 
What is the first, when does it com¬ 
mence, and till what time does it ex¬ 
tend ? Within this period, whom have 
we ? What is the second; and within 
the days of whom is it included? Whom 
does it afford us ? The third age is the 
restoration of learning, under whom; 
and in it, avIio flourished ? The fourth 
comprehends what age, and in it, who 
flourished in France, and in England ? 
When we speak comparatively of the 
ancients, and the moderns, what do we 
generally mean by the ancients, and 
what by the moderns ? Why must any 
comparison between these two classes 
of writers, be vague and loose ? Upon 
what is the comparison generally made 
to turn ? Between whom, was it agi¬ 


tated with much heat, in France ? 
To this day, among men of taste, what 
do we find? What may, therefore, be 
the effect of a few reflections ? Whom 
may w r e boldly venture to tell, that he 
has come too late with his discovery? 
Of the reputation of such writers, what 
is observed? What may he be able to 
point out in their works; and what may 
he show ? But what remark follows ? 
How is this illustrated ? Of matters of 
mere reasoning, what is remarked ? Ac ¬ 
cording to what, may positions that de¬ 
pend upon science, knowledge, and mat¬ 
ters of fact, be overturned ? For this 
reason, what follows; and what illustra¬ 
tion is given ? On what does taste de¬ 
pend ? Why is it vain to think of de¬ 
ceiving mankind here, as in matters of' 
philosophy ? Of this remark, what illus¬ 
tration is given ? What is it also vain 
to allege ? Of them, what is true ? But 
how came they to gain possession of 
colleges and schools ? Of the Greek and 
Latin, what is observed; and what fol¬ 
lows? To what are the classics not 
indebted for their fame; and in con¬ 
sequence of what, did they become 
classics? What evidence have we of 
this? From this general principle, what 
may we boldly and justly inter? Against 
what, however, must we guard? What 
remark follows? Whatever superiority 
the ancients may have had in point of 
genius, yet, in what, hrve the moderns 
some advantage? How may the world 
be considered ? To what have its im¬ 
provements not always been in pro¬ 
portion; and why? Yet, when roused 
from this lethargy, what has follow¬ 
ed? Some happy genius, arising at 
intervals, would do what ? With the 









i.ECT. XXXV.] 


QUESTIONS. 


398 a 


advantage of a proper stock of materi¬ 
als, what can an inferior genius do? 
Hence, in what have modern philoso¬ 
phers an unquestionable superiority 
over the ancients? What is our author 
also inclined to think; and to what, 
perhaps, is this owing ? Of some studies, 
that relate to taste, what is also ob¬ 
served? What instance is given? Why 
are we better acquainted with the na¬ 
ture of government ? How is this illus¬ 
trated ? Of the more complex kinds of 
poetry, what is observed; and what il¬ 
lustration is given ? Why do not these 
points of superiority, extend as far as 
might be imagined at first view ? To 
return to our former comparison, what, 
not without reason, may be said? What 
does this appear to form ? Among the 
ancients, what do we find; and what 
among the moderns ? How is this gene¬ 
ral remark to be understood; and why ? 
What is it proper to observe, and what 
were they ? Under what circumstances 
did they return to their own country ? 
As their knowledge and improvements 
cost them more labour, what was the 
consequence? What illustrations fol¬ 
low ? Of these testimonies of public re¬ 
gard, what is observed ? In our times, 
how is good writing considered; and 
what illustration is given? What cir¬ 
cumstances have contributed to spread 
a mediocrity of genius over all wri¬ 
ters ? What is Sir William Temple’s 
opinion of the effect of the multitude 
of assistances which we have for all 
kinds of composition ? Repeat the pas¬ 
sage here introduced from him. 

Among the ancients, for what must 
we look; and to the moderns, for what 
must we have recourse ? How do they 
compare in works of taste ; and how is 
this illustrated ? In history, what may 
safely be asserted ? Of the drama, what 
is observed; and of elegies, pastoral 
and lyric poetry, what is said ? What 
is remarked of the name of Horace ? 
What contributes to render him one of 
the very few authors whom one never 
tires of reading; and of him, what is 
further observed ? To such as wish to 
form their taste, what is warmly re¬ 
commended; and for what reason? 
Who has great reason to suspect his 
own taste ? And of what is our author 
persuaded? Who, only, undervalue 
them ? At the same time, from what is 
a just and high regard for the prime 
writers of antiquity, to be distinguish- ! 


ed ? What remarks follow ? Why 
ought we, therefore, to read them with 
a distinguishing eye ? After these re¬ 
flections on the ancients and moderns, 
to what does our author proceed ? What 
is the most general division of the dif¬ 
ferent kinds of composition ? Why do 
these require to be separately consider¬ 
ed ? With what does our author begin; 
and of what has he already spoken ? 
What are the remaining species of 
prose compositions; and what shall be 
first considered ? Of it, what is obser¬ 
ved ? What is the office of an historian? 
Of this object, what is remarked? As 
the primary end of history is to record 
truth, what are the fundamental quali¬ 
ties of an historian ? How is this illus¬ 
trated? At the same time, what record 
of facts only, is entitled to the name of 
history ? Of the nature of the facts 
themselves, what is observed? What 
is the great end of history; and for 
what is it designed ? What remark fol¬ 
lows ? What is its object; and what 
must it not, therefore, be ? What are 
essential characteristics of history; and 
what should not be employed ? What 
character must the writer sustain ? At 
the same time, with what is historical 
information not inconsistent? What 
does it admit; but of it, what is obser¬ 
ved ? What does historical composition 
comprehend ? Of these, what is re¬ 
marked? Histories, are of how many 
kinds; and what are they ? In the con¬ 
duct and management of his subject, 
what is the first attention requisite in 
an historian ? Of the effect of this, what 
is observed; and what remark follows ? 
Where must this unity necessarily be 
less perfect? Yet, even there, how does 
it appear, that some degree of it can be 
preserved? How is this remark fully 
illustrated ? 01' all the ancient general, 
historians, who had the most exact idea 
of this quality of historical composition ? 
From what does this appear ; and in 
that account, what does he observe? 
Of this action, what does he say? In 
another place, on what does he con¬ 
gratulate himself; and what does he 
remark ? Whereupon, he adds what; 
and what comparison does he intro¬ 
duce ? Of such as write the history of 
some particular great transaction, what 
is observed ? What are instances of par¬ 
ticular histories, where the unity of 
historical narration is perfectly Avell 
maintained ? What are the. remarks 



398 b 


HISTORICAL WRITING. [lect. xxxvr. 


made on Thucydides’ history of the 
Peloponnesian war ? For these reasons, 
by whom is he severely censured? 
With a view to render his narration 
agreeable, what must not the historian 
neglect? Of what must he give a dis¬ 
tinct account? But what is he not 
under the necessity of doing? If he 
cannot do what, does he discover no art; 
and by what method will he soon tire 
the reader? Of the history of Herodo¬ 
tus, what is observed? Hence, what 
follows? With what does he abound; 
and what is said of them? Of the 
President Thuanus, and of the history 
of his own times, what is observed ? 


ANALYSIS. 

1. The ancients and the moderns compared. 
a. A remarkable phenomenon. 

e. Four of these happy ages, 
c. The fallacy of attempting to decry the 
ancient classics. 

£>. A caution against an implicit venera¬ 
tion for tiiem. 

e. Favourable circumstances of ancient 

times. 

f. Good writing now, not so difficult an 

attainment. 

a. The ancient classics recommended. 

2. Historical writing. 

a. The office of an historian. 
a. Attention to unity. 

(a.) Instances of its observance. 

(b.) Instances of its violation. 


LECTURE XXXVI. 


HISTORICAL WRITING. 

After making some observations on the controversy which has 
been often carried on concerning the comparative merit of the 
ancients and the moderns, I entered, in the last lecture, on the consi¬ 
deration of historical writing. The general idea of history is, a 
lecord of truth for the instruction of mankind. Hence arise the 
primary qualities required in a good historian, impartiality, fidelity, 
gravity, and dignity. What I principally considered, was the unity 
which belongs to this sort of composition ; the nature of which I 
have endeavoured to explain. 

I proceed next to observe, that in order to fulfil the end of history, 
the author must study to trace to their springs the actions and events 
which he records. Two things are especially necessary for his doin°* 
this successfully; a thorough acquaintance with human nature, and 
political knowledge, or acquaintance with government. The former is 
necessary to account for the conduct of individuals, and to cive just 
views of the character; the latter, to account for the revolutions of 
government, and the operation of political causes on public affairs. 
tf°*mus t concur, in order to form a complete instructive historian. 

With regard to the latter article, political knowledge, the an¬ 
cient writers wanted some advantages which the moderns enjoy * 
from whom, upon that account, we have a title to expect more 
accurate and precise information. The world, as I formerly hint¬ 
ed, was more shut up in ancient times, than it is now ; there was 
then less communication among neighbouring states, and, by con- 
sequence, less knowledge of one another’s affairs; no intercourse 
by establishing posts, or hy ambassadors resident at different courts 
The knowledge and materials of the ancient historians, were 
thereby more limited and circumscribed; and it is to be obser¬ 
ved too, that they wrote for their own countrymen only; they 








t.ect. xxxvi.] HISTORICAL WRITING. 


399 


had no idea of writing for the instruction of foreigners, whom they 
despised, or of the world in general; and hence, they are less 
attentive to convey all that knowledge with regard to domestic 
policy, which we, ig distant times, would desire to have learned 
from them. Perhaps also, though in ancient ages men were abun¬ 
dantly animated with the love of liberty, yet the full extent of the 
influence of government, and of political causes, was not then so 
thoroughly scrutinize^, as it has been in modern times ; when a lon¬ 
ger experience of all the different modes of government, has rendered 
men more enlightened and intelligent, with respect to public affairs. 

To these reasons it is owing, that though the ancient historians 
set before us the particular facts which they relate, in a very dis¬ 
tinct and beautiful manner, yet sometimes they do not give us 
a clear view of all the political causes, which affected the situation 
of affairs of which they treat. From the Greek historians, we 
are able to form but an imperfect notion of the strength, the w r ealth, 
and the revenues of the different Grecian states; of the causes 
of several of those revolutions that happened in their government; 
or of their separate connexions c:nd interfering interests. In writing 
the history of the Romans, Livy had surely the most ample field 
for displaying political knowledge concerning the rise of their 
greatness, and the advantages or defects of their government. 
Yet the instruction of these important articles, which he affords, 
is not considerable. An elegant writer he is, and a beautiful re¬ 
lator of facts, if ever there was one; but by no means distinguish¬ 
ed for profoundness or penetration. Sallust, when writing the 
history of a conspiracy against the government, which ought to 
have been altogether a political history, has evidently attended mor.e 
to the elegance of narration, and the painting of characters, than 
to the unfolding of secret causes and springs. Instead of that com¬ 
plete information, which we would naturally have expected from 
him of the state of parties in Rome, and of that particular conjunc¬ 
ture of affairs, which enable so desperate a profligate as Catiline to 
become so formidable to government, he has given us little more 
than a general declamatory account of the luxury and corruption of 
manners in that age, compared with the simplicity of former times. 

I by no means, however, mean to censure all the ancient histori¬ 
ans as defective in political information. No historians can be more 
instructive than Thucydides, Polybius, and Tacitus. Thucydides is 
grave, intelligent, and"judicious; always attentive to give very exact 
information concerning every operation which he relates; and to 
show the advantages or disadvantages of every plan that was propos¬ 
ed, and every measure that was pursued. Polybius excels in com¬ 
prehensive political views, in penetration into great systems, and in 
his profound and distinct knowledge of all military affairs. Taci¬ 
tus is eminent for his knowledge of the human heart; is sentimen¬ 
tal and refined in a high degree; conveys much instruction with 
respect to political matters, but more with respect to human nature 


400 


HISTORICAL WRITING. 


[lect. XXXVI, 


But when we demand from the historian profound and instructive 
views of his subject, it is not meant that he should be frequently inter¬ 
rupting the course of his history, with his own reflections and specu¬ 
lations. He should give us all the information that is necessary for 
our fully understanding the affairs which he records. He should 
make us acquainted with the political constitution, the force, the re¬ 
venues, the internal state of the country of which he writes; and 
with its interests and connexions in respect of neighbouring coun¬ 
tries. He should place us, as on an elevated station, whence we 
may have an extensive prospect of all the causes that co-operate in 
bringing forward the events which are related. But having put into 
our hands all the proper materials for judgment, he should not be 
too prodigal of his own opinions and reasonings. When an histori¬ 
an is much given to dissertation, and is ready to philosophize and 
speculate on all the records, a suspicion naturally arises, that he 
will be in hazard of adapting his narrative of facts to favour some 
system which he has formed to himself. It is rather by fair and 
judicious narration that history should instruct us, than by deliver¬ 
ing instruction in an avowed and direct manner. On some occa¬ 
sions when doubtful points require to be scrutinized, or when some 
great event is in agitation, concerning the causes or circumstances 
of which mankind have been much divided, the narrative may be al¬ 
lowed to stand still for a little; the historian may appear, and may 
with propriety enter into some weighty discussion. But he must 
take care not to cloy his readers with such discussions, by repeating 
them too often. 

When observations are to be made concerning human nature in 
general, or the peculiarities of certain characters, if the historian can 
artfully incorporate such observations with his narrative, they will 
have a better effect than when they are delivered as formal detach¬ 
ed reflections. For instance: in the life of Agricola, Tacitus, speak¬ 
ing of Domitian’s treatment of Agricola, makes this observation : 

‘ Propium humani ingenii est, odisse quern laeseris.’* The obser¬ 
vation is just and well applied; but the form in which it stands, is 
abstract and philosophical. A thought of the same kind has a finer 
effect elsewhere in the same historian, when speaking of the jea¬ 
lousies which Germanicus knew to be entertained against him by 
Livia and Tiberius : ‘ Anxius/ says he, 4 occultis in se patrui avise- 
que odiis, quorum causae acriores quia iniquae.’t Here a profound 
moral observation is made; but it is made, without the appearance 
of making it in form; it is introduced as a part of the narration, in 
assigning a reason for the anxiety of Germanicus. We have another 
instance of the same kind, in the account which he gives of a mutiny 
raised against Rufus, who was a ‘ Praefectus Castrorum/ on account 
of the severe labour which he imposed on the soldiers. ‘Quippe 
Rufus, dill manipularis, dein centurio, mox castris praefectus, anti- 


* ‘ 11 belongs to human nature to hate the man whom you have injured.’ 
t ‘ Uneasy in his mind, on account of the concealed hatred entertained against him 
by his uncle and grandmother, which was the more bitter,because the cause of it was 





lect. xxxvi.J HISTORICAL WRITING. 


40! 


quam duramque militiam revocabat, vetus operis & laboris, et eo 
immitior quia toleraverat..’* There was room for turning this into 
a general observation, that they who have been educated and har¬ 
dened in toils, are commonly found to be the most severe in requir¬ 
ing the like toils from others. But the manner in which Tacitus in¬ 
troduces this sentiment as a stroke in the character of Rufus, gives it 
much more life and spirit. This historian has a particular talent of 
intermixing after this manner, with the course of his narrative, 
many striking sentiments and useful observations. 

Let us next proceed to consider the proper qualities of his¬ 
torical narration. It is obvious, that on the manner of narration, 
much depends,as the first notion of history is the recital of past facts; 
and how much one mode of recital may be preferable to another, we 
shall soon be convinced, by thinking ofthe different effects which the 
same story, when told by two different persons, is found to produce. 

The first virtue of historical narration, is clearness, order, and 
due connexion. To attain this, the historian must be completely 
master of his subject; he must see the whole as at one view; and 
comprehend the chain and dependence of all its parts, that he may 
introduce every thing in its proper place; that he may lead us 
smoothly along the track of affairs which are recorded, and may 
always give us the satisfaction of seeing how one event arises out 
of another. Without this, there can be neither pleasure nor instruc¬ 
tion, in reading history. Much for this end will depend on the 
observance of that unity in the general plan and conduct, which, 
in the preceding lecture, I recommended. Much too will depend on 
the proper management of transactions, which forms one of the chief 
ornaments of this kind of writing, and is one of the most difficult 
in execution. Nothing tries an historian’s abilities more, than so 
to lay his train beforehand, as to make us pass naturally and agree¬ 
ably from one part of his subject to another; to employ no clumsy 
and awkward junctures; and to contrive ways and means of form¬ 
ing some union among transactions, which seem to be most widely 
separated from one another. 

In the next place, as history is a very dignified species of com¬ 
position, gravity must always be maintained in the narration. There 
must be no meanness nor vulgarity in the style; no quaint nor col¬ 
loquial phrases; no affectation of pertness, or of wit. The smart, 
or the sneering manner of telling a story, is inconsistent with the 
historical character. I do not say, that an historian is never to let 
himself down. He may sometimes do it with propriety, in order to 
diversify the strain of his narration, which, if it be perfectly uni¬ 
form, is apt to become tiresome. But he should be careful never 
to descend too far; and, on occasions where a light or ludicrous 
anecdote is proper to be recorded, it is generally better to throw 

* 4 For Rufus, who bad long been a common soldier, afterwards a centurion, and at 
length a general officer, restored the severe military discipline of ancient times. 
Grown old amidst toils and labours, he was more rigid in imposing them, because he 
bad been accustomed to bear them.’ 

3 M 


51 



HISTORICAL WRITING. 


402 


[lect. xxxvr. 


it into a note, than to hazard becoming too familiar, by introducing 
it into the body of the work. 

But an historian may possess these qualities of being perspi¬ 
cuous, distinct, and grave, and may notwithstanding be a dull 
writer; in which case, we shall reap little benefit from his labours. 
We shall read him without pleasure; or, most probably, we shall 
soon give over reading him at all. He must therefore study to ren¬ 
der his narration interesting; which is the quality that chiefly dis¬ 
tinguishes a writer of genius and eloquence. 

Two things are especially conducive to this; the first is, a just 
medium in the conduct of narration, between a rapid or crowded 
recital of facts, and a prolix detail. The former embarrasses, and 
the latter tires us. An historian that would interest us, must know 
when to be concise, and where he ought to enlarge; passing con¬ 
cisely over slight and unimportant events, but dwelling on such as 
are striking and considerable in their nature, or pregnant with con¬ 
sequences ; preparing beforehand our attention to them, and bring¬ 
ing them forth into the most full and conspicuous light. The next 
thing he must attend to, is a proper selection of the circum¬ 
stances belonging to those events which he chooses to relate fully. 
General facts make a slight impression on the mind. It is by 
means of circumstances and particulars properly chosen, that a 
narration becomes interesting and affecting to the reader. These 
give life, body, and colouring,to the recital of facts, and enable us 
to behold them as present, and passing before our eves. It is this 
employment of circumstances, in narration, that is properly termed 
historical painting. 

In all these virtues of narration, particularly in this last, of pic¬ 
turesque descriptive narration, several of the ancient historians emi¬ 
nently excel. Hence, the pleasure that is found in reading Herodo¬ 
tus, Thucydides, Xenophon, Livy, Sallust, and Tacitus. They are 
all conspicuous for the art of narration. Herodotus is, at all times, 
an agreeable writer, and relates every thing with that naivete and 
simplicity of manner, which never fails to interest the reader. Though 
the manner of Thucydides be more dry and harsh, yet, on great oc¬ 
casions, as when he is giving an account of the plague of Athens, 
the siege of Plataea, the sedition in Corcyra, the defeat of the Athe¬ 
nians in Sicily, he displays a very strong and masterly power of de¬ 
scription. ^ Xenophon’s Cyropaedia, and his Anabasis, or Retreat of 
the Ten Thousand, are extremely beautiful. The circumstances 
are finely selected, and the narration is easy and engaging; but his 
Hellenics, or Continuation of the History of Thucydides, is a much 
inferior work. Sallust’s Art of Historical Painting,in his Catilina- 
rian, but, more especially,in his Jugurthine War, is well known; 
though his style is liable to censure, as too studied and affected. 

Livy is more unexceptionable in his manner, and is excelled by 
no historian whatever in the art of narration: several remarkable 
examples might be given from him His account, for instance, of 
the famous defeat of the Roman army by the Samnites, at the Fur- 


lect. xxxvi.] HISTORICAL WRITING. 403 

•t ' * - *\ * ' . • 

cae Caudinse, in the beginning of the ninth book, affords one of the 
most beautiiui exemplifications of historical painting that is any 
where to be met with. We have,first, an exact description of the 
narrow pass between two mountains, into which the enemy had de¬ 
coyed the Romans. When they find themselves caught, and no 
hope of escape left, we are made to see, first, their astonishment, 
next their indignation, and then, their dejection, painted in the most 
lively manner, by such circumstances and actions as were natural to 
persons in their situation. The restless and unquiet manner in 
which they pass the night; the consultations of the Samnites; the 
various measures proposed to he taken; the messages between the 
two armies, ail heighten the scene. At length, in the morning, the 
consuls return to the camp, and inform them that they could receive 
no other terms but that ot surrendering their arms, and passing un¬ 
der the yoke, which was considered as the last mark of ignominy 
for a conquered army. Part of what then follows, I shall give in 
the author’s own words. 4 Redintegravit luctum in castris consulum 
adventus; ut vix ab iis abstinerent inanus, quorum temeritate in eum 
locum deducti essent. Alii alios iutueri, contemplari arm a mox tra- 
denda, & inermes futuras dextras; proponere sibimet ipsi ante ocu- 
los, jugum hostile, et ludibria victoris, et vultus superbos, et per ar- 
matos inermium iter. Inde IVedi agminis miserabiiem viam; per 
sociorum urbes reditum in patriam ac parentes quo saepe ipsi trium- 
phantes venissent. Se solos sine vulnere, sine ferro, sine acie vic- 
tos; sibi non stringere licuisse gladios, non manum cum hoste 
conserere; sibi nequicquam arma, nequicquam vires, nequicquam 
animos datos. Haec frementibus, hora iatalis ignominiae adve- 
nit. Jamprimum cum singulis vestimentis, inermes extra vallum 
abirejussi. Turn a consulibus abire lictores jussi, paludamentaque 
detracta Tantam hoc inter ipsos, qui paulo ante eos dedendos, la- 
cerandosque censuerant, miserationem fecit, ut suae quisque conditio- 
nis oblitus, ab ilia deformatione tantae majestatis velut ab nefando 
spectaculo, averteret oculos. Primi consoles, prope seminudi, sub 
jugum missi/* &c. t he rest of the story,which it would be too long 


* ‘ The arrival of the consuls in the camp, wrought up their passions to such a de¬ 
gree, that they could scarcely abstain from laying violent, hands on them, as by their 
rashness they had been brought into this situation. They began to look on one 
another ; to cast a melancholy eye on their arms, which were now to be surren¬ 
dered, and on their right hands, which were to become defenceless. The yoke 
under which they were to pass ; the scoffs of the conquerors ; and their haughty 
looks, when disarmed and stripped, they should be led through the hostile lines ; 
all rose before their eyes. They then looked forward to the sad journey which 
awaited them, when they were to pass as a vanquished and disgraced army through 
the territories of their allies, by whom they had often been beheld returning in 
triumph to their families and native land. They alone, they muttered to one 
another, without an engagement, without a single blow, had been conquered. To 
their hard fate it fell, never to have had it in their power to draw a sword, or to 
look an enemy in the face; to them only, arms, strength, and courage, had been 
given in vain. While they were thus giving vent to their indignation, the fatal 
moment of their ignominy arrived. First, they are commanded to come forth 
from the camp, without armour, and in a single garment. Next, orders were 
given, that the consuls should be left without their lictors, and that they should 
be stripped of their robes. Such commiseration did this affront excite among 
them, who, but a little before, had been for delivering up those very consuls to 



404 HISTORICAL WRITING. [lect. xxxvi. 

to insert, is carried on with the same beauty, and full of picturesque 
circumstances.* * 

Tacitus is another author eminent for historical painting, though 
in a manner altogether different from that of Livy. Livy s descrip¬ 
tions are more full, more plain, and natural; those of T acitus con¬ 
sist in a few bold strokes. He selects one or two remarkable cir¬ 
cumstances, and sets them before us in a strong, and, generally, in 
a new and uncommon light. Such is the following picture of the 
situation of Rome, and of the emperor Galba, when Otho was 
advancing against him: ‘Agebatur hue illuc Galba, vario turbae 
fluctuantis impulsu, completis undique basilicis et templis, lugubri 
prospectu. Neque populi aut plebis ulla vox; sed attoniti vultus, 
et converse ad omnia aures. Non tumultus, non quies; sed quale 
magni metus, et magnae irae, silentium est.’t No image, in any po¬ 
et, is more strong and expressive than this last stroke of the descrip¬ 
tion : 4 Non tumultus, non quies, sed quale,’ &c. This is a concep¬ 
tion of the sublime kind, and discovers high genius. Indeed, through ¬ 
out all his work, Tacitus shows the hand of a master. As he is 
profound in reflection, so he is striking in description, and pathetic 
in sentiment. The philosopher, the poet, and the historian, all 
meet in him. Though the period of which he writes may be reck¬ 
oned unfortunate for an historian, he has made it afford us many in¬ 
teresting exhibitions of human nature. The relations which he 
gives of the deaths of several eminent personages, are as affecting 
as the deepest tragedies. He paints with a glowing pencil ; and 
possesses, beyond all writers, the talent of painting, not to the ima¬ 
gination merely, but to the heart. With many of the most distin- 


the enemy, and for putting them to death, that every one forgot his own condition, 
and turned his eyes aside from this infamous disgrace, suffered by the consular dig¬ 
nity, as from a spectacle which was too detestable to be beheld. The consuls, almost 
half naked, were first made to pass under the yoke,’&,c. 

* The description which Caesar gives of the consternation occasioned in his 
camp, by the accounts which were spread among his troops, of the ferocity, the 
size, and the courage of the Germans, affords an instance of historical painting, 
executed in a simple manner ; and, at the same time, exhibiting a natural and 
lively scene. ‘ Dum paucos dies ad Vesontionem moratur, ex percunctatione nos- 
trorum, vocibusque Gallorum ac mercatorum, qui ingenti magnitudine corporum 
Germanos, incredibili virtute, atque exercitatione in armis esse praedicabant ; 
saspe numero sese cum iis congressos, ne vulturn quidern atque aciem oculorum 
ferre potuisse ; tantus subito terror oinnem exercitum occupavit, ut non medio- 
criter omnium mentes animosque perturbaret. Hie primum ortus est a tribunis 
militum, ac prsefectis, reliquisque qui ex urbe, amicitiae causa, Csesarem secuti, 
suum periculum miserabantur, quod non magnum in re militari usum habebant: 
quorum alius, alid causd illatd quam sibi ad proficiscendum necessariam esse dice- 
ret, petebat ut ejus voluntate discedere liceret. Nonnulli pudore adducti, ut timo- 
ris suspicionem vitarent, remanebant. Hi neque vulturn fingere, neque interdum 
lacrymas tenere poterant. Abditi in tabernaculis, aut suum fatum querebantur. 
aut cum familiaribus snis, commune periculum miserabantur. Vulgo, totis castris tes- 
tamenta obsignabantur.’ De Bell. Gall. L. I. 

t < Galba was driven to and fro by the tide of the multitude, shoving him from 
place to place. The temples and public buildings were filled with crowds, of a dis¬ 
mal appearance. No clamours were heard, either from the citizens, or from the rab¬ 
ble. Their countenances were filled with consternation: their ears were employed in 
listening with anxiety. It was not a tumult; it was not quietness : it was the silence of 
terror, and of wrath.’ 




X.ECT. xxxvi.J HISTORICAL WRITING. 


40.) 


guished beauties, he is, at the same time, not a perfect model for 
history, and such as have formed themselves upon him, have seldom 
been successful. He is to be admired, rather than imitated. In 
his reflections he is too refined; in his style, too concise, sometimes 
quaint and affected, often abrupt and obscure. History seems to re¬ 
quire a more natural, flowing, and popular manner. 

The ancients employed one embellishment of history which the 
moderns have laid aside; I mean orations, which.on weighty occa¬ 
sions, they put into the mouths of some of their chief personages. 
By means of these, they diversified their history; they conveyed 
both moral and political instruction; and, by the opposite arguments 
which were employed, they gave us a view of the sentiments of dif¬ 
ferent parties. Thucydides was the first who introduced this me¬ 
thod. The orations with which his history abounds, and those 
of some other Greek and Latin historians, are among the most valu¬ 
able remains which we have of ancient eloquence. How beautiful 
soever they are, it may be much questioned, I think, whether they 
find a proper place in history. I am rather inclined to think, that they 
are unsuitable to it; for they form a mixture which is unnatural in 
history, of fiction with truth. We know that these orations are en¬ 
tirely of the author’s own composition, and that he has introduced 
some celebrated person haranguing in a public place, purely that he 
might have an opportunity of showing his own eloquence, ordeliver- 
ing his own sentiments, under the name of that person. This is a 
sort of poetical liberty which does not suit the gravity of history, 
throughout which an air of the strictest truth should always reign. 
Orations may be an embellishment to history; such might also po¬ 
etical compositions be, introduced under the name of some of the 
personages mentioned in the narration, who were known to have 
possessed poetical talents. But neither the one nor the other, finds 
a proper place in history. Instead of inserting formal orations, the 
method adopted by later writers seems better and more natural; 
that of the historian, on some great occasion, delivering, in his own 
person, the sentiments and reasonings of the opposite parties, or the 
substance of what was understood to be spoken in some public as¬ 
sembly ; which he may do without the liberty of fiction. 

The drawing of characters is one of the most splendid, and, at the 
same time, one of the most difficult ornaments of historical composi¬ 
tion. For characters are generally considered, as professed exhibi¬ 
tions of fine w r riting; and an historian, who seeks to shine in them, is 
frequently in danger of carrying refinement to excess, from a desire 
of appearing very profound and penetrating. He brings together so 
many contrasts, and subtile oppositions of qualities, that we are 
rather dazzled with sparkling expressions, than entertained wuth any 
clear conception of a human character. A writer who would cha¬ 
racterize in an instructive and masterly manner, should be simple in 
his style, and should avoid all quaintness and affectation: at the 
same time, not contenting himself with giving us general outlines 
only, but descending into those peculiarities which mark a eharac 
tet, in its most strong and distinctive features. The Greek historians 


406 


HISTORICAL WRITING. [lect. xxxvj, 

sometimes give eulogiums, but rarely draw full and professed cha¬ 
racters. The two ancient authors who have laboured this part of 
historical composition most, are Sallust and Tacitus. 

As history is a species of writing designed for the instruction of 
mankind, sound morality should always reign in it. Both in describ¬ 
ing characters, and in relating transactions, the author should al¬ 
ways show himself to be on the side of virtue. To deliver moral 
instruction in a formal manner, falls not within his province ; but 
both as a good man, and as a good writer, we expect that he should 
discover sentiments of respect for virtue, and an indignation at fla¬ 
grant vice. To appear neutral and indifferent with respect to good 
and bad characters, and to affect a crafty and political, rather than a 
moral turn of thought, will, besides other bad effects, derogate great¬ 
ly from the weight of historical composition, and will render the 
strain of it much more cold and uninteresting. We are always most 
interested in the transactions which are going on, when our sympa¬ 
thy is awakened by the story, and when we become engaged in the 
fate of the actors. But this effect can never be produced by a wri¬ 
ter, who is deficient in sensibility and moral feeling. 

As the observations which I have hitherto made, have mostly re¬ 
spected the ancient historians, it may naturally be expected that I 
should also take some notice of the moderns who have excelled in 
this kind of writing. 

The country in Europe, where the historical genius has, in later 
ages, shone forth with most lustre, beyond doubt, is Italy. The na¬ 
tional character of the Italians seems favourable to it. They were 
always distinguished as an acute, penetrating, reflecting people, re¬ 
markable for political sagacity and wisdom, and who early addicted 
themselves to the arts of writing. Accordingly, soon after the res¬ 
toration of letters, Machiavel, Guicciardin, Davila, Bentivoglio, Fa¬ 
ther Paul, became highly conspicuous for historical merit. They 
all appear to have conceived very just ideas of history; and are 
agreeable, instructive, and interesting writers. In their manner of 
narration, they are formed upon the ancients; some of them, as 
Bentivoglio and Guicciardin, have, in imitation of them, introduc¬ 
ed orations into their history. In the profoundness and distinctness 
of their political views, they may, perhaps, be esteemed to have sur¬ 
passed the ancients. Critics have, at the same time, observed some 
imperfections in each of them. Machiavel, in his history of Flo¬ 
rence, is not altogether so interesting as one would expect an author 
of his abilities to be; either through his own defect, or through 
some unhappiness in his subject, which led him into a very minute 
detail of the intrigues of one city. Guicciardin, at all times sensible 
and profound, is taxed for dwelling so long on the Tuscan affairs as 
to be sometimes tedious; a defect which is also imputed occasional¬ 
ly to the judicious Father Paul. Bentivoglio, in his excellent his¬ 
tory of the wars of Flanders, is accused of approaching to the florid 
and pompous manner; and Davila, though one of the most agree¬ 
able and entertaining relaters, has manifestly this defect of spreading 
a sort of uniformity over all his characters, by representing them as 


lect. xxxvi.] HISTORICAL WRITING. 


407 


guided too regularly by political interest. But although some 
objections may be made to these authors, they deserve, upon the 
whole, to be placed in the first rank of modern historical writers. 
The wars of Flanders, written in Latin by Famianus Strada, is a 
book of some note ; but is not entitled to the same reputation as the 
works of the other historians I have named. Strada is too violently 
partial to the Spanish cause; and too open a panegyrist of the Prince 
of Parma. He is florid, diffuse, and an affected imitator of the man¬ 
ner and style of Livy. 

Among the French, as there has been much good writing in 
many kinds, so also in the historical. That ingenious nation who 
have done so much honour to modern literature, possess, in an 
eminent degree, the talent of narration. Many of their later his¬ 
torical writers are spirited, lively, and agreeable; and some of them 
not deficient in profoundness and penetration. They have not, 
however, produced any such capital historians as the Italians, whom 
I mentioned above. 

Our island, till within these few years, was not eminent for 
its historical productions. Early, indeed, Scotland made some 
figure by means of the celebrated Buchanan. He is an elegant 
writer, classical in his Latinity, and agreeable both in narration 
and description. But one cannot but suspect him to be more at¬ 
tentive to elegance than to accuracy. Accustomed to form his poli¬ 
tical notions wholly upon the plans of ancient governments, the 
feudal system seems never to have entered into his thoughts; and 
as this was the basis of the Scottish constitution, his political views 
are,of course, inaccurate and imperfect. When he comes to the 
transactions of his own times, there is such a change in his manner 
of writing, and such an asperity in his style, that, on what side 
soever the truth lies with regard to those dubious and long controvert¬ 
ed facts which make the subject of that part of his work, it is im¬ 
possible to clear him from being deeply tinctured with the spirit 
of party. 

Among the older English historians, the most considerable is 
Lord Clarendon. Though he writes as the professed apologist of 
one side, yet there appears more impartiality in his relation of facts, 
than might at first be expected. A great spirit of virtue and probity 
runs through his work. He maintains all the dignity of an historian. 
His sentences, indeed, are often too long, and his general manner 
is prolix; but his style, on the whole, is manly; and his merit, as 
an historian, is much beyond mediocrity. Bishop Burnet is lively 
and perspicuous ; but he has hardly any other historical merit. 
His style is too careless and familiar for history; his characters are, 
indeed, marked with a bold and strong hand; but they are generally 
light and satirical; and he abounds so much in little stories concern¬ 
ing himself, that he resembles more a writer of memoirs than of 
history. During a long period, English historical authors seemed 
to aim at nothing higher than an exact relation of facts; till of late the 
distinguished names of Hume, Robertson, and Gibbon, have raised 


40S HISTORICAL WRITING. [lect. xxxvi* 

the British character, in this species of writing, to high reputation 
and dignity. 

I observed, in the preceding lecture, that annals, memoirs, and 
lives, are the inferior kinds of historical composition. It will be 
proper, before dismissing this subject, to make a few observations 
upon them. Annals are commonly understood to signify a col¬ 
lection of facts, digested according to chronological order; rather 
serving for the materials of history, than aspiring to the name of 
history themselves. All that is required, therefore, in a writer of 
such annals, is to be faithful, distinct, and complete. 

Memoirs denote a sort of composition, in which an author does 
not pretend to give full information of all the facts respecting the 
period of which he writes, but only to relate what he himself had 
access to know, or what he was concerned in, or what illustrates 
the conduct of some person, or the circumstances of some trans¬ 
action, which he chooses for bis subject. From a writer of me¬ 
moirs, therefore, is not expected the same profound research, 
or enlarged information, as from a writer of history. He is not 
subject to the same laws of unvarying dignity and gravity. He may 
talk freely of himself; he may descend into the most familiar anec¬ 
dotes. What is chiefly required of him is, that he be sprightly 
and interesting ; and especially, that he inform us of things that 
are useful and curious; that he convey to us some sort of know¬ 
ledge worth the acquiring. This is a species of writing very be¬ 
witching to such as love to write concerning themselves, and con¬ 
ceive every transaction, in which they had a share, to be of singu¬ 
lar importance. There is no wonder, therefore, that a nation so 
sprightly as the French, should, for two centuries past, have been 
pouring forth a whole flood of memoirs; the greatest part of which 
are little more than agreeable trifles. 

Some, however, must be excepted from this general character ; 
two in particular; the memoirs of the Cardinal de Retz, and those 
of the Duke of Sully. From Retz’s Memoirs, besides the pleasure 
of agreeable and lively narration, we may derive also instruc¬ 
tion, and much knowledge of human nature. Though his poli¬ 
tics be often too fine spun, yet the memoirs of a professed fac¬ 
tious leader, such as the Cardinal was, wherein he draws both his 
own character, and that of several great personages of his time, so 
fully, cannot be read by any person of good sense without benefit. 
The Memoirs of the Duke of Sully, in the state in which they are 
now given to the public, have great merit, and deserve to be 
mentioned with particular praise. No memoirs approach more 
nearly to the usefulness and the dignity of full legitimate history. 
They have this peculiar advantage, of giving us "a beautiful dis¬ 
play of two of the most illustrious characters which history pre¬ 
sents ; Sully himself, one of the ablest and most incorrupt ministers, 
and Henry IV. one of the greatest and most amiable princes of 
modern times. I know few books more full of virtue, and of good 
sense, than Sully’s Memoirs; few, therefore, more proper to form both 


lect. xxxvi.] HISTORICAL WRITING. 


409 


the heads and the hearts of such as are designed for public business, 
and action, in the world. 

Biography, or the writing of lives, is a very useful kind of com¬ 
position, less formal and stately than history ; but to the bulk of 
readers, perhaps, no less instructive, as it affords them the opportu¬ 
nity of seeing the characters and tempers, the virtues and failings, 
of eminent men fully displayed ; and admits them into a more tho¬ 
rough and intimate acquaintance with such persons, than history ge¬ 
nerally allows; for a writer of lives may descend, with propriety, 
to minute circumstances, and familiar incidents. It is expected of 
him, that he is to give the private, as well as the public life, of the 
person whose actions he records; nay, it is from private life, from 
familiar, domestic, and seemingly trivial occurrences, that we often 
receive most light into the real character. In this species of writing, 
Plutarch has no small merit; and to him we stand indebted for much 
of the knowledge that we possess, concerning several of the most 
eminent personages of antiquity. His matter is, indeed, better than 
his manner; as he cannot lay claim to any peculiar beauty or ele¬ 
gance. Hisjudgmenttoo,and his accuracy, have sometimes been tax¬ 
ed : but whatever defects of this kind he may be liable to, his Lives 
of Eminent Men will always be considered as a valuable treasure of 
instruction. He is remarkable for being one of the most humane wri¬ 
ters of all antiquity; less dazzled than many of them are, with the 
exploits of valour and ambition; and fond of displaying his great men 
to us, in the more gentle lights of retirement and private life. 

I cannot conclude the subject of history, without taking notice of 
a very great improvement which has, of late years, begun to be in¬ 
troduced into historical composition ; I mean a more particular at¬ 
tention than was formerly given to laws, customs, commerce, reli¬ 
gion, literature, and every other thing that tends to show the spirit 
and genius of nations. It is now understood to be the business of 
an able historian to exhibit manners, as well as facts and events; and 
assuredly, whatever displays the state and life of mankind, in differ¬ 
ent periods, and illustrates the progress of the human mind, is more 
useful and interesting than the detail of sieges and battles. The 
person to whom we are most indebted for the introduction of this 
improvement into history, is the celebrated M. Voltaire, whose 
genius has shone with such surprising lustre, in so many different 
parts of literature. His age of Louis XIV. was one of the first great 
productions in this taste; and soon drew throughout all Europe, 
that general attention, and received that high approbation, which 
so ingenious and eloquent a production merited. His essay on the 
general history of Europe, since the days of Charlemagne, is not to 
be considered either as a history, or the proper plan of an histori¬ 
cal work ; but only as a series of observations on the chief events 
that have happened throughout several centuries, and on the changes 
that successively took place in the spirit and manners of different 
nations. Though, in some dates and facts, it may, perhaps, be in¬ 
accurate, and is tinged with those particularities, which unhappily 
3 N 52 


410 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect. XXXVI. 


distinguish Voltaire’s manner of thinking on religious subjects, yet 
it contains so many enlarged and instructive views, as justly to merit 
the attention of all who either read or write the history of those ages. 


QUESTIONS. 


Towards the close of the last lec¬ 
ture, on what subject did our author 
enter ? What is the general idea of 
history?' Hence, arise what? What 
was principally considered, in the last 
lecture ? To observe what does our au¬ 
thor next proceed ? To do this, what 
two things are especially necessary? 
Why is the former necessary, and why 
the latter ? To form what, must both 
concur ? With regard to political know¬ 
ledge, what is observed? In ancient 
times, what was the state of the world ? 
What influence did this exert over the 
knowledge and materials of the ancient 
historians ? And what is also to be ob¬ 
served? Hence, to what are they less 
attentive? What remark follows? To 
these reasons, what is owing ? How is 
this remark illustrated from the Greek 
historians, from Livy, and from Sallust? 
Of what does our author not mean to 
censure all the ancient historians? 
Illustrate this remark from Thucydides, 
Polybius, and Tacitus. But when we 
demand from the historian profound 
and instructive views of his subject, 
what is not meant ? What information 
should he give us; and with what 
should he make us acquainted ? Where 
should he place us ? But having put 
into our hands the proper materials for 
judgment, of what should he not be 
too ^prodigal; and why? By what 
should history instruct us? On what 
occasions may the narrative be allowed 
to stand still for a little ? On such oc¬ 
casions, what may the historian do; but 
of what must he be careful ? When ob¬ 
servations are to be made concerning 
human nature in general, on the pe¬ 
culiarities of particular characters, 
what is remarked ? What is the first 
instance given to illustrate this remark; 
and of it, what is observed ? What 
other thought, in the same historian, 
has a finer effect; and of it, what is re¬ 
marked ? What other instance of the 
same kind have we ? Into what gene¬ 
ral observation, was there room for 
turning this remark ? But of the man¬ 
ner in which Tacitus introduces it, 
what is observed? What particular 


talent has this historian ? To consider 
what, do we next proceed ? Why does 
much depend on the manner of narra¬ 
tion ? How may we be convinced ol 
the truth of this remark ? What is the 
first virtue of historical narration ? To 
attain this, what is requisite ; and why? 
Without this, what can we not expect? 
For this end, on the observance of what 
will much depend ; and on what, also, 
will much depend ? What is the high 
est test of the abilities of an historian ? 
What is the next requisite in historical 
narration ? What must not appear in 
it; and why ? What does our author 
not say ? Why may he sometimes do 
this with propriety ? But of what should 
he be careful; and what remark fol 
lows? If a historian possesses these 
qualities, and is still a dull writer, what 
will be the consequence ? What must 
he therefore study; and of it, what is 
observed ? What two things especially 
conduce to this ? What is the effect of* 
the former ; and of the latter ? What 
must an historian that would interest 
us, do ? What is the next thing to be 
attended to ? Of general facts, what is 
observed? By means of what, does a 
narration become interesting and affect¬ 
ing to the reader ? What is the effect 
of these ; and what is it properly term¬ 
ed ? In all these virtues of narration, 
who eminently excel; and hence, what 
follows? Of Herodotus, what is here 
observed ? Though the manner of Thu¬ 
cydides be more dry and harsh, yet, on 
what occasions does he display a very 
strong and masterly power of descrip¬ 
tion ? Of Xenophon’s Cyropsedia, and 
his Anabasis, what is observed; but 
what is a much inferior work ? What is 
here remarked of Sallust ? And of Livy, 
what is observed ? What instance is 
given? What are the particulars ? Re¬ 
peat the passage which then follows, as 
it is here introduced. Of the rest of the 
story, what is observed ? 

What is observed of Tacitus; and 
how do his descriptions compare with 
those of Livy ? What course does he 
pursue? What example is given; and 
of it, what is remarked ? Throughout 










LECT. XXXVI. j 


QUESTIONS. 


410 a 


all of his works, what does he show ? 
How is this remark illustrated ? How 
does he paint; and what does he, be¬ 
yond all writers, possess? With many 
of the most distinguished beauties, 
however, what is further observed of 
him ? What embellishment did the an¬ 
cients employ, which the moderns have 
laid aside ? By means of these, what 
did they do ? Who was the first who 
introduced this method? Of the orations 
with which his history abounds, and of 
those of some other Greek and Latin 
historians, what is observed ? W 7 hat, 
however, may be much questioned ? 
Why does our author think they nre 
unsuitable to it? Of these orations, 
what do we know ? Of this sort of po¬ 
etical liberty, what is observed ? How 
is this illustrated ? Instead of inserting 
formal orations, what method has been 
adopted by later writers ? Of the draw¬ 
ing of characters, what is observed; 
and why ? What does he bring to¬ 
gether ? What are the requisites of the 
writer who would characterize in an 
instructive and masterly manner ? 
What is here said of the Greek histo¬ 
rians : and of Sallust and Tacitus ? 
Why should sound morality reign in 
history ? In what should the author al¬ 
ways show himself to be on the side of 
virtue? What falls not within his pro¬ 
vince ; but, what do we expect from 
him ? What derogate greatly from the 
weight of historical composition; and 
what additional effect will they have ? 
When are we most interested in the 
transactions which are going on ? But 
by whom cannot this effect be pro¬ 
duced? As the observations hitherto 
made have mostly respected the an¬ 
cient historians, what may naturally be 
expected ? Where has historical ge¬ 
nius, in later ages, shone forth with 
most lustre ? From what does it appear 
that the natural character of the Ital¬ 
ians favours it ? Accordingly, what fol¬ 
lowed ; and of them, what is observed ? 
In their manner of narration, upon 
whom are they formed ; and of some of 
them, what is remarked ? In what may 
they be esteemed to have surpassed 
the ancients ? But what have critics, 
at the same time, observed ? Of Ma- 
chiavel, what is remarked ? With what 
is Guicciardin taxed? What is ob¬ 
served of Bentivoglio, and of Davila ? 
What, remark follows ? Of the wars of 


Flanders, by Famianus Strada, and of 
Strada himself, what is observed ? Of' 
the French, and of their Jater historical 
writers, what is observed? What, 
however, have they not done ? What 
is remarked of Great Britain? By 
means of whom did Scotland early 
make some figure; and of him, what 
is observed? Why are his political 
views inaccurate and imperfect ? What 
is said of the manner in which he re¬ 
cords the transactions of his own times? 
What is observed of Lord Clarendon ? 
What is the character of Bishop Bur¬ 
net, as an historical writer? During a 
long period, at what only did English 
authors seem to aim ? W hat is said of 
Hume, Robertson, and Gibbon? What 
was observed in a preceding lecture ? 
What are annals commonly understood 
to signify ? What, therefore, is all that 
is required in a writer of annals? What 
sort of composition do memoirs denote ? 
What, therefore, is not expected from a 
writer of memoirs ? What is chiefly re¬ 
quired of him ? Of this species of wm- 
ting, what is observed? About what, 
therefore, is there no wonder? What 
two must be excepted from this general 
character ? Of the former, what is ob¬ 
served ? What is observed of the Me¬ 
moirs of the Duke of Sully ? What pe¬ 
culiar advantage have they ? Of Bi¬ 
ography, or the writing of lives, what 
is observed ? To what may a writer of 
lives descend ? What is expected of 
him ; and why ? In this species of wri¬ 
ting, who has no small merit, and what 
is observed of him ? For what is he re¬ 
markable ? Without noticing what, 
cannot our author close the subject of 
history ? What is now understood to 
be the business of an able historian; 
and what remark follows ? To whom 
are we most indebted for this improve¬ 
ment ; and what is said of him ? What 
was one of the first great works in this 
taste, and what was its effect ? What is 
observed of his essay on the general 
history of Europe, since the days of 
Charlemagne ? 


ANALYSIS. 

I. Historical writing. 
a. Actions and events to be traced to 
their springs. 

a. An aquaintance with human nature. 

b. Political knowledge. 
e. The proper qualities of historical nar¬ 
ration. 







410 6 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect. XXXVII. 


a. Clearness, order, and due connexion. 

b. Gravity to be maintained. 

c. The narration should be interesting. 
(a.) The ancients eminent for this 

quality. 

c. Orations employed by the ancients. 


i). The drawing of characters. 

e. Morality, an indispensable requisite. 

f. Distinguished modern historians. 

2. Annals. 

3. Memoirs. 

4. Biography. 


LECTURE XXXVII. 


PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING.—DIALOGUE.—EPISTOLA¬ 
RY WRITING.—FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 

As history is both a very dignified species of composition, and, 
by the regular form which it assumes, falls directly under the laws 
of criticism, I discoursed of it fully in the two preceding lectures. 
The remaining species of composition, in prose, afford less room for 
critical observation. 

Philosophical writing, for instance, will not lead us into any long 
discussion. As the professed object of philosophy is to convey in¬ 
struction, and as they who study it are supposed to do so for instruc¬ 
tion, not for entertainment, the style, the form, and dress of such 
writings, are less material objects. They are objects, however, that 
must not be wholly neglected. He who attempts to instruct man¬ 
kind, without studying, at the same time, to engage their attention, 
and to interest them in his subject by his manner of exhibiting it, 
is not likely to prove successful. The same truths and reasonings, 
delivered in a dry and cold manner, or without a proper measure of 
elegance and beauty, will make very different impressions on the 
minds of men. 

It is manifest that every philosophical writer must study the ut¬ 
most perspicuity ; and, by reflecting on what was formerly delivered 
on the subject of perspicuity, with respect both to single words and 
the construction of sentences, we may be convinced that this is a 
study which demands considerable attention to the rules of style and 
good writing. Beyond mere perspicuity, strict accuracy and pre¬ 
cision are required in a philosophical writer. He must employ no 
word of uncertain meaning, no loose nor indeterminate expressions ; 
and should avoid using words which are seemingly synonymous, 
without carefully attending to the variations which they make upon 
the idea. 

To be clear, then, and precise, is one requisite which we have a 
title to demand from every philosophical writer. He may possess 
this quality, and be, at the same time, a very dry writer. He should, 
therefore, study some degree of embellishment, in order to render 
his composition pleasing and graceful. One of the most agreeable, 
and one of the most useful embellishments, which a philosopher can 
employ, consists in illustrations taken from historical facts, and the 
characters of men. All moral and political subjects naturally afford 
scope for these : and wherever there is room for employing them. 







X.ECT. XXXVII. J 


DIALOGUE, 


411 


they seldom fail of producing a happy effect. They diversify the 
composition ; they relieve the mind from the fatigue of mere reason¬ 
ing, and at the same time raise more full conviction than any reason¬ 
ings produce : for they take philosophy out of the abstract, and give 
weight to speculation, by showing its connexion with real life, and 
the actions of mankind. 

Philosophical writing admits besides of a polished, a neat, and 
elegant style. It admits of metaphors, comparisons, and all the 
calm figures of speech, by which an author may convey his sense 
to the understanding with clearness and force, at the same time that 
he entertains the imagination. He must take great care, however, 
that all his ornaments be of the chastest kind, never partaking of the 
florid or the tumid ; which is so unpardonable in a professed philo¬ 
sopher, that it is much better for him to err on the side of naked 
simplicity, than on that of too much ornament. Some of the ancients, 
as Plato and Cicero, have left us philosophical treatises composed 
with much elegance and beauty. Seneca has been long and justly 
censured for the affectation that appears in his style. He is too fond 
of a certain brilliant and sparkling manner; of antithesis and quaint 
sentences. It cannot be denied, at the same time, that he often ex¬ 
presses himself w r it.h much liveliness and force: though his style, 
upon the whole, is far from deserving imitation. In English, Mr. 
Locke’s celebrated Treatise on Human Understanding, may be 
pointed out as a model, on the one hand, of the greatest clearness 
and distinctness of philosophical style, with very little approach to 
ornament; Lord Shaftesbury’s writings, on the other hand, exhibit 
philosophy dressed up with all the ornament which it can admit; 
perhaps with more than is perfectly suited to it. 

Philosophical composition sometimes assumes a form under which 
it mingles more with works of taste, when carried on in the way of 
dialogue and conversation. Under this form the ancients have given 
us some of their chief philosophical works ; and several of the mo¬ 
derns have endeavoured to imitate them. Dialogue writing may 
be executed in two ways, either as direct conversation, where none 
but the speakers appear, which is the method that Plato uses ; or as 
the recital of a conversation, where the author himself appears, and 
gives an account of what passed in discourse, which is the method 
that Cicero generally follows. But though those different methods 
make some variation in the form, yet the nature of the composition 
is at bottom the same in both, and subject to the same laws. 

A dialogue, in one or other of these forms, on some philosophical, 
moral, or critical subject, when it is well conducted, stands in a high 
rank among the works of taste; but is much more difficult in the 
execution than is commonly imagined: for it requires more than 
merely the introduction of different persons speaking in succession. 
It ought to be a natural and spirited representation of real conversa¬ 
tion ; exhibiting the character and manners of the several speakers, 
and suiting to the character of each, that peculiarity of thought and 
expression which distinguishes him from another. A dialogue, thus 
conducted, gives the reader a very agreeable entertainment; as by 


412 


[lect. xxxvit. 


DIALOGUE. 

means of the debate going on among the personages, he receives a 
fair and full view of both sides of the argument, and is at the same 
time amused with polite conversation, and with a display of con¬ 
sistent and well supported characters. An author, therefore, who 
lias genius for executing such a composition after this manner, has 
it in his power both to instruct and to please. 

But the greatest part of modern dialogue writers have no idea of 
any composition of this sort; and bating the outward forms of con¬ 
versation, and that one speaks and another answers, it is quite the 
same as if the author spoke in person throughout the whole. He 
sets up a Philotheus, perhaps, and a Philatheos, or an 4 and a B ; 
who, after mutual compliments, and after admiring the fineness of 
the morning or evening, and the beauty of the prospects around 
them, enter into conference concerning some grave matter; and all 
that we know farther of them is, that the one personates the author, 
a man of learning, no doubt, and of good principles ; and the other 
is a man of straw, set up to propose some trivial objections, over 
which the first gains a most entire triumph, and leaves his skepti¬ 
cal antagonist,at the end,much humbled, and generally, convinced 
of his error. This is a very frigid and insipid manner of writing; 
the more so, as it is an attempt toward something, which we see the 
author cannot support. It is the form, without the spirit, of con¬ 
versation. The dialogue serves no purpose, but to make awkward in¬ 
terruptions ; and we should with more patience hear the author con¬ 
tinuing always to reason himself, and remove the objections that are 
made to his principles, than be troubled with the unmeaning appear¬ 
ance of two persons, whom we see to be in reality no more than one. 

Among the ancients, Plato is eminent for the beauty of his dia¬ 
logues. The scenery, and the circumstances of many of them, are 
beautifully painted. The characters of the sophists, with whom 
Socrates disputed, are well drawn : a variety of personages are ex¬ 
hibited to us; we are introduced into a real conversation, often sup¬ 
ported with much life and spirit, after the Socratic manner. For 
richness and beauty of imagination, no philosophic writer, ancient 
or modern, is comparable to Plato. The only fault of his imagina¬ 
tion is, such an excess of fertility as allows it sometimes to obscure 
his judgment. It frequently carries him into allegory, fiction, en¬ 
thusiasm, and the airy regions of mystical theology. The philoso¬ 
pher is, at times, lost in the poet. But whether we be edified with 
the matter or not, (and much edification he often affords,) we are 
always entertained with the manner; and left with a strong impres¬ 
sion of the sublimity of the author’s genius. 

Cicero’s dialogues, or those recitals of conversation, which he has 
introduced into several of his philosophical and critical works, are 
not so spirited, nor so characteristical, as those of Plato. Yet some, 
as that De Oratore especially, are agreeable and well supported. 
They show us conversation carried on among some of the principal 
persons of ancient Rome, with freedom, good breeding, and digni¬ 
ty. The author of the elegant dialogue, De Causis Corrupts Elo- 
quentix , which is annexed sometimes to the works of Quintiiian, 


lect. xxxvii.] EPISTOLARY WRITING. 


413 


and sometimes to those of Tacitus, has happily imitated, perhaps has 
excelled Cicero, in this manner of writing. 

Lucian is a dialogue writer of much eminence: though his sub¬ 
jects are seldom such as can entitle him to be ranked among philo¬ 
sophical authors. He has given the model of the light and hu¬ 
mourous dialogue, and has carried it to great perfection. A charac¬ 
ter of levity, and at the same time of wit and penetration, distin¬ 
guishes all his writings. His great object was, to expose the follies 
of superstition, and the pedantry of philosophy, which prevailed 
in his age; and he could not have taken any more successful me¬ 
thod for this end, than what he has employed in his dialogues, espe¬ 
cially in those of the gods and of the dead, which are full of pleasant¬ 
ry and satire. In this invention of dialogues of the dead, he has 
been followed by several modern authors. Fontenelle, in particu¬ 
lar, has given us dialogues of this sort, which are sprightly and 
agreeable; but as for characters, whoever his personages be, they all 
become Frenchmen in his hands. Indeed, few things in composi¬ 
tion are more difficult, than in the course of a moral dialogue to 
exhibit characters properly distinguished; as calm conversation 
furnishes none of those assistances for bringing characters into light, 
which the active scenes and interesting situations of the drama af¬ 
ford. Hence few authors are eminent for characteristical dialogue 
on grave subjects. Ono of the most remarkable in the English lan¬ 
guage, is a writer of the last age, Dr. Henry More, in his Divine 
Dialogues, relating to the foundations of natural religion. Though 
his style be now in some measure obsolete, and his speakers be mark¬ 
ed with the academic stiffness of those times, yet the dialogue is ani¬ 
mated by a variety of character, and a sprightliness of conversation, 
beyond what are commonly met with in writings of this kind. 
Bishop Berkeley’s Dialogues concerning the existence of matter, do 
not attempt any display of characters; but furnish an instance of a 
very abstract subject, rendered clear and intelligible by means of 
conversation properly managed. 

I proceed next to make some observations on epistolary writing, 
which possesses a kind of middle place between the serious and 
amusing species of composition. Epistolary writing appears, at first 
view, to stretch into a very wide field. For there is no subject 
whatever, on which one may not convey his thoughts to the pub¬ 
lic, in the form of a letter. Lord Shaftesbury, for instance, Mr. 
Harris, and several other writers, have chosen to give this form to 
philosophical treatises. But this is not sufficient to class such trea¬ 
tises under the head of epistolary composition. Though they bear, 
in the title page, a Letter to a Friend, after the first address, the friend 
disappears, and we see that it is, in truth, the public with whom 
the author corresponds. Seneca’s Epistles are of this sort. There 
is no probability that they ever passed in correspondence, as real 
letters. They are no other than miscellaneous dissertations on mo¬ 
ral subjects; which the author, for his convenience, chose to put 
into the epistolary form. Even where one writes a real letter on 
some formal topic, as of moral or religious consolation, to a person 


414 EPISTOLARY WRITING. [lect. xxxvir, 

under distress, such as Sir William Temple has written to the coum 
tess of Essex on the death of her daughter, he is at liberty, on such 
occasions, to write wholly as a divine or as a philosopher, and to 
assume the style and manner of one, without reprehension. We 
consider the author not as writing a letter, but as composing a dis¬ 
course, suited particularly to the circumstances of some one person. 

Epistolary writing becomes a distinct species of composition, sub¬ 
ject to the cognizance of criticism, only, or chiefly, when it is of the 
easy and familiar kind ; when it is conversation carried on upon 
paper, between two friends at a distance. Such an intercourse, 
when well conducted, may be rendered very agreeable to reader 
of taste. If the subject of the letters be important, they will be the 
more valuable. Even though there should be nothing very consi¬ 
derable in the subject ; yet, if the spirit and turn of the correspon¬ 
dence be agreeable ; it they be written in a sprightly manner, and 
with native grace and ease, they may still be entertaining; more 
especially if there be any thing to interest us, in the characters of 
those who write them. Hence the curiosity which the public has 
always discovered concerning the letters of eminent persons. We 
expect in them to discover somewhat of their real character. It is 
childish indeed to expect, that in letters we are to find the whole 
heart of the author unveiled. Concealment and disguise take place, 
more or less, in all human intercourse. But still, as letters from one 
friend to another make the nearest approach to conversation, we may 
expect to see more of a character displayed in these than in other 
productions, which are studied for public view. We please ourselves 
with beholding the writer in a situation which allows him to be at his 
ease, and to give vent occasionally to the overflowings of his heart 
Much, therefore, of the merit, and the agreeableness of epistolary 
writing, will depend on its introducing us into some acquaintance 
with the writer. There, if any where, we look for the man, not 
for the author. Its first and fundamental requisite is, to be natural 
and simple ; for a stifl and laboured manner is as bad in a letter as 
it is in conversation. This does not banish sprightliness and wit. 

1 hese are graceful in letters, just as they are in conversation ; when 
they flow easily, and without being studied ; when employed so as 
to season, not to cloy. One who, either in conversation or in let- 
ters, affects to shine and to sparkle always, will not please long. 
Ihe style of letters should not be too highly polished • it ou°-ht 
to be neat and correct, but no more. All nicety about words, be¬ 
trays study; and hence musical periods, and appearances of num- 
ber and harmony in arrangement, should be carefully avoided in 
letters. The best letters are commonly such as the authors have writ- 
ten with most facility. What the heart or the imagination dictates, 
always flows readily ; but where there is no subject to warm or in¬ 
terest these, constraint appears; and hence, those letters of mere 
compliment, congratulation, or affected condolence, which have cost 
the authors most labour in composing, and which, for that reason, 
they perhaps consider as their masterpieces, never fail of being the 
most disagreeable and insipid to the readers 


J.ECT. xxxvii.] EPISTOLARY WRITING. 


415 


It ought, at the same time, to be remembered, that the ease and 
simplicity which I have recommended in epistolary correspondence, 
are not to be understood as importing entire carelessness. In writ¬ 
ing to the most, intimate friend, a certain degree of attention, both 
to the subject and the style, is requisite and becoming. It is no 
more than what we owe both to ourselves and to the friend with 
whom we correspond. A slovenly and negligent manner of writ¬ 
ing, is a disobliging mark of want of respect. The liberty, besides, 
of writing letters with too careless a hand, is apt to betray persons in¬ 
to imprudence in what they write. The first requisite, both in con¬ 
versation and in correspondence, is to attend to all the proper deco¬ 
rums which our own character and that of others demand. An 
imprudent expression in conversation may be forgotten and pass 
away ; but when we take the pen into our hand, we must remem¬ 
ber, that ‘ Litera scripta manet.’ 

Pliny’s Letters are one of the most celebrated collections which 
the ancients have given us, in the epistolary way. They are elegant 
and polite ; and exhibit a very pleasing and amiable view of the 
author. But, according to the vulgar phrase, they smell too much 
of the lamp. They are too elegant and fine ; and it is not easy to 
avoid thinking, that the author is casting an eye towards the pub¬ 
lic, when he is appearing to write only for his friends. Nothing 
indeed is more difficult than for an author who publishes his own 
letters, to divest himself altogether of attention to the opinion of the 
world in what he says; by which means he becomes much less 
agreeable than a man of parts would be, if, without any constraint of 
this sort, he were writing to his intimate friend. 

Cicero’s Epistles, though not so showy as those of Pliny, are, on 
several accounts, a far more valuable collection ; indeed, the most 
valuable collection of letters extant in any language. They are 
letters of real business, written to the greatest men of the age, com¬ 
posed with purity and elegance, but without the least affectation ; 
and, what adds greatly to their merit, written without any inten¬ 
tion of being published to the world. For it appears, that Cicero 
never kept copies of his own letters; and we are wholly indebted 
to the care of his freedman Tyro, for the large collection that was 
made, after his death, of those which are now extant, amounting to 
near a thousand.* They contain the most authentic materials of the 
history of that age: and are the last monuments which remain of 
Rome in its free state ; the greatest part of them being written dur¬ 
ing that important crisis, when the republic was on the point of ruin; 
the most interesting situation, perhaps, which is to be found in the 
affairs of mankind. To his intimate friends, especially to Atticus, 
Cicero lays open himself and his heart, with entire freedom. In the 
course of his correspondence with others, we are introduced into 
acquaintance with several of the principal personages of Rome ; and 
it is remarkable that most of Cicero’s correspondents, as well as him- 

* See his letter to Atticus, which was written a year or two before his death, in 
which he tells him, in answer to some inquiries concerning- his epistles, that he had no 
collection of them, and that Tyro had only about seventy of them. Ad. Att. xvi 5. 

30 



dlt> EPISTOLARY WRITINGS. [lect. xxxvii, 

sell, are elegant and polite writers: which serves to heighten oui 
idea of the taste and manners of that age. - 

The most distinguished collection of letters in the English lan- 
guage, is that of Mr. Pope, Dean Swift, and their friends; partly 
published in Mr. Pope’s works, and partly in those of Dean Swift. 
This collection is, on the whole, an entertaining and agreeable one ; 
and contains much wit and refinement. It is not, however, altogeth¬ 
er free from the fault which I imputed to Pliny’s Epistles, of too 
much study and refinement. In the variety of letters from different 
persons, contained in that collection, we find many that are written 
with ease, and a beautiful simplicity. Those of Dr. Arbuthnot, in 
particular, always deserve that praise. Dean Swift’s also are unaffect¬ 
ed ; and as a proof of their being so, they exhibit his character ful¬ 
ly, with all its defects ; though it were to be wished, for the honour 
of his memory, that his epistolary correspondence had not been 
drained to the dregs, by so many successive publications as have 
been given to the world. Several of Lord Bolingbroke’s and of 
Bishop Atterbury’s letters, are masterly. The censure of writing 
letters in too artificial a manner, falls heaviest on Mr. Pope himself 
There is visibly more study, and less of nature and the heart in his 
letters, than in those of some of his correspondents. He had form¬ 
ed himself on the manner of Voiture, and is too fond of writing like 
a wit. His letters to ladies are full of affectation. Even in writing 
to his friends, how forced an introduction is the following, of a let¬ 
ter to Mr. Addison : 4 1 am more joyed at your return, than I should 
be at that of the sun, as much as I wish for him in this melancholy 
wet season; but it is his fate too, like yours, to be displeasing to 
owls and obscene animals, who cannot bear his lustre.’ How stiff 
a compliment is it which he pays to Bishop Atterbury ! 4 Though 
the noise and daily bustle for the public be now over, I dare say 
you are still tendering its welfare ; as the sun in winter, when seem¬ 
ing to retire from the world, is preparing warmth and benedictions 
for a better season.’ This sentence might be tolerated in a harangue : 
but is very unsuitable to the style of one friend corresponding with 
another. ® 

The gayety and vivacity of the French genius appear to much 
advantage in their letters, and have given birth to several agreeable 
publications. In the last age, Balzac and Voiture were the two 
most celebrated epistolary writers. Balzac’s reputation indeed soon 
declined, on account of his swelling periods and pompous style. 
But Voiture continued long a favourite author. His composition 
is extremely sparkling; he shows a great deal of wit, and can trifle 
in the most entertaining manner. His only fault is, that he is too 
open and professed a wit, to be thoroughly agreeable as a letter wri- 
ter. The letters of Madame de Sevigne are now esteemed the most 
accomplished model of a familiar correspondence. They turn indeed 
very much upon trifles, the incidents of the day, and the news of the 
town ; and they are overloaded with extravagant compliments, and 
expressions of fondness, to her favourite daughter; but withal, they 
show such perpetual sprightliness, they contain such easy and varied 


lect. xxxvii.] FICTITIOUS HISTORY 


417 


narration, and so many strokes of the most lively and beautiful paint- 
perfectly free from any affectation, that they are justly entitled 
to high praise. The letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montague are not 
unworthy of being named after those of Madame de Sevig ne. They 
have much of the French ease and vivacity; and retain more the 
character of agreeable epistolary style, than perhaps any letters which 
have appeared in the English language. 

There remains to be treated of, another species of composition in 
prose, which comprehends a very numerous, though, in general, a 
very insignificant class of writings, known by the name of romances 
and novels. These may, at first view, seem too insignificant, to de¬ 
serve that any particular notice should be taken of them. But I can¬ 
not be of this opinion. Mr. Fletcher, of Salton, in one of his tracts, 
quotes it as the saying of a wise man, that, give him the making of 
all the ballads of a nation, he would allow any one that pleased to 
make their laws. The saying was founded on reflection and good 
sense, and is applicable to the subject now before us For any kind of 
writing, how trifling soever in appearance, that obtains a general cur¬ 
rency, and especially that early preoccupies the imagination of the 
youth of both sexes, must demand particular attention. Its influence 
is likely to be considerable, both on the morals and taste of a nation. 

In fact, fictitious histories might be employed for very useful . 
purposes. They furnish one of the best channels for conveying 
instruction, for painting human life and manners, for showing the 
errors into which we are betrayed by our passions, for rendering 
virtue amiable and vice odious. The effect of well contrived stories, 
towards accomplishing these purposes, is stronger than any effect 
that can be produced by simple and naked instruction ; and hence we 
find, that the wisest men in all ages have more or less employed 
fables and fictions, as the vehicles of knowledge. These have ever 
been the basis of both epic and dramatic poetry. It is not, there¬ 
fore, the nature of this sort of writing, considered in itself, but the 
faulty manner of its execution, that can expose it to any contempt. 
Lord Bacon takes notice of our taste for fictitious history, as a proof 
of the greatness and dignity of the human mind. He observes very 
ingeniously, that the objects of this world, and the common train of 
affairs which we behold going on in it, do not fill the mind, nor give 
it entire satisfaction. We seek for something that shall expand the 
mind in a greater degree: we seek for more heroic and illustrious 
deeds, for more diversified and surprising events, for a more splen¬ 
did order of things, a more regular and just distribution of rewards 
and punishments, than what we find here: because we meet not 
with these in true history, we have recourse to fictitious. We cre¬ 
ate worlds according to our fancy, in order to gratify our capacious 
desires: “ Accommodando,” says that great philosopher, “rerum 
simulacra ad animi desideria, non submittendo animum rebus, 
quod ratio facit, et historia.”* Let us then, since the subject 

* u Accommodating 1 the appearances of things to the desires of the mind, not bring¬ 
ing down the mind, as history and philosophy do, to the course of events.” 

53 



*118 


FICTITIOUS HISTORY. [lect. xxxvu, 

wants neither dignity nor use, make a few observations on the rise 
and progress of fictitious history, and the different forms it has as¬ 
sumed in different countries. 

In all countries we find its origin very ancient. The genius of 
the Eastern nations, in particular, was from the earliest times much 
turned towards invention, and the love of fiction. Their divinity, 
their philosophy, and their politics, were clothed in fables and par¬ 
ables. The Indians, the Persians, and Arabians, were all famous 
lor their tales. The Arabian Nights’ Entertainments are the pro¬ 
duction of a romantic invention, but of a rich and amusing imagi¬ 
nation; exhibiting a singular and curious display of manners and 
characters, and beautified with a very humane morality. Among 
the ancient Greeks, we hear of the Ionian and Milesian Tales; but 
they have now perished, and, from any account that we have of 
them, appear to have been of the loose and wanton kind. Some 
fictitious histories yet remain, that were composed during the de¬ 
cline of the Roman empire, by Apuleius, Achilles Tatius, and He- 
liodorus, bishop of Trica, in the fourth century ; but none of them 
are considerable enough to merit particular criticisms. 

During the dark ages, this sort of writing assumed a new and 
very singular form, and fora long while made a great figure in the 
world. The martial spirit of those nations, among whom the feudal 
government prevailed ; the establishment of single combat, as an 
allowed method of deciding causes both of justice and honour; the 
appointment of champions in the cause of women, who could not 
maintain their own rights by the sword; together with the insti¬ 
tution of military tournaments, in which different kingdoms vied 
with one another, gave rise, in those times, to that marvellous sys¬ 
tem of chivalry; which is one of the most singular appearances in 
the history of mankind. Upon this were founded those romances 
of knight-errantry, which carried an ideal chivalry to a still more 
extravagant height than it had risen in fact. There was displayed 
in them a new and very wonderful sort of world, hardly bearing 
any resemblance to the world in which we dwell. Not only knights 
setting forth to redress all manner of wrongs, but in every page, 
magicians, dragons, and giants, invulnerable men, winged horses, 
enchanted armour, and enchanted castles; adventures absolutely 
incredible, yet suited to the gross ignorance of these ages, and to 
the legends, and superstitious notions concerning magic and necro¬ 
mancy, which then prevailed. This merit they had, of being writ¬ 
ings of the highly moral and heroic kind. Their knights were 
patterns not of courage merely, but of religion, generosity, courtesy, 
and fidelity ; and the heroines were no less distinguished for mo¬ 
desty, delicacy, and the utmost dignity of manners. 

These were the first compositions that received the name of ro¬ 
mances. The origin of this name is traced, by Mr. Huet, the learn¬ 
ed bishop of Avranche, to the Provencal troubadours, a sort of 
story-tellers and bards in the county of Provence, where there sub¬ 
sisted some remains of literature and poetry. The language which 
prevailed in that country was a mixture of Latin and Gallic, called 


lect. xxxvii.] FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 


419 


the Roman or Romance language; and, as the stories of these trouba¬ 
dours were written in that language, hence it is said the name of 
Romance, which we now apply to all fictitious composition. 

The earliest of those romances is that which goes under the name 
of Turpin, the archbishop of Rheims, written in the 11th century. 
The subject is, the achievements of Charlemagne and his peers, 
or paladins, in driving the Saracens out of France and part of 
Spain; the same subject which 4riosto has taken for his celebrated 
poem of Orlando Furioso, which is truly a chivalry romance, as 
extravagant as any of the rest, but partly heroic, and partly comic, 
embellished with the highest graces of poetry. The romance of 
Turpin was followed by Amadis de Gaul, and many more of the 
same stamp. The crusades both furnished new matter, and in¬ 
creased the spirit for such writings ; the Christians against the Sara¬ 
cens made the common groundwork of them; and from the 11th 
to the 16th century, they continued to bewitch all Europe. In 
Spain, where the taste for this sort of writing had been most 
greedily caught, the ingenious Cervantes, in the beginning of the 
last century, contributed greatly to explode it; and the abolition 
of tournaments, the prohibition of single combat, the disbelief 
of magic and enchantments, and the change in general of man¬ 
ners throughout Europe, began to give a new turn to fictitious com¬ 
position. 

Then appeared the Astraea of D’Urfe, the Grand Cyrus, the 
Clelia and Cleopatra of Madame Scuderi, the Arcadia of Sir Philip 
Sidney, and other grave and stately compositions in the same style. 
These may be considered as forming the second stage of romance 
writing. The heroism and the gallantry, the moral and virtuous 
turn of the chivalry romance, were still preserved ; but the dra¬ 
gons, the necromancers, and the enchanted castles, were banished, 
and some small resemblance to human nature was introduced. Still 
however, there was too much of the marvellous in them to please 
an age which now aspired to refinement. The characters were dis¬ 
cerned to be strained; the style to be swoln; the adventures incre¬ 
dible ; the books themselves were voluminous and tedious. 

Hence, this sort of composition soon assumed a third form, and 
from magnificent heroic romance, dwindled down to the familiar 
novel. These novels, both in France and England, during the age of 
Lewis XIV. and King Charles II. were in general of a trifling nature, 
without the appearance of moral tendency, or useful instruction. 
Since that time, however, somewhat better has been attempted, and 
a degree of reformation introduced into the spirit of novel writing. 
Imitations of life and character have been professed to be given 
of the behaviour of persons in particular interesting situations, such 
as may actually occur in life; by means of which, what is lau¬ 
dable or defective in character and in conduct, may be pointed 
out, and placed in a useful light. Upon this plan, the French 
have produced some compositions of considerable merit. Gil Bias, 
by Le Sage, is a book full of good sense, and instructive know- 


420 FICTITIOUS HISTORY. [lect. xxxvii. 

ledge of the world. The works of Marivaux, especially his Mari¬ 
anne, discover great refinement of thought, great penetration into 
human nature, and paint, with a very delicate pencil, some of the 
nicest shades and features in the distinction of characters. The 
INouvelle Heloise of Rousseau is a production of very singular kind ; 
in many of the events which are related, improbable and unnatu- 
, ’ * n some of the details tedious, and for some of the scenes 
which are described justly blamable; but withal, for the power of 
eloquence, for tenderness of sentiment, for ardour of passion, enti¬ 
tled to rank among the highest productions of fictitious history. 

in this kind of writing we are, it must be confessed, in Great Bri¬ 
tain, inferior to the French. We neither relate so agreeably, nor 
draw characters with so much delicacy; yet we are not without 
some performances which discover the strength of the British geni¬ 
us. No fiction, in any language, was ever better supported than the 
Adventures of Robinson Crusoe. While it is carried on with that 
appearance of truth and simplicity, which takes a strong hold of the 
imagination of all readers, it suggests, at the same time, very useful 
instruction; by showing how much the native powers of man mav 
be exerted for surmounting the difficulties of any external situation. 
Mr. Fielding s novels are highly distinguished for their humour; a 
humour which, if not of the most refined and delicate kind, is orio-i- 
nal, and peculiar to himself. The characters which he draws are 
lively and natural, and marked with the strokes of a bold pencil 
I he general scope of his stories is favourable to humanity and good- 

Jln SS i °f h r r V g, nd 111 , T ° m Jones ’ his g rea test work, the artful con¬ 
duct of the fable, and the subserviency of all the incidents to the 
winding up of the whole, deserve much praise. The most moral of 
all our novel writers is Richardson, the author of Clarissa, a writer 
ol excellent intentions, and of very considerable capacity and geni¬ 
us ; did he not possess the unfortunate talent of spinning out pieces of 
amusement into an immeasurable length. The trivial performances 
which dady appear in public under the title of Lives, Adventures, 
and Histones, by anonymous authors, if they be often innocent, yet 
are mos commonly insipid; and though in the general it ought to 
be admitted that charactenstical novels, formed upon nature and 
upon life, without extravagance and without licentiousness, might 
lurnish an agreeable and useful entertainment to the mind ; yet, con- 
sidering the manner in which these writings have been for the most 
part conducted, it must also be confessed, that they oftener tend to 
dissipation and idleness, than to any good purpose. Let us now. 
therefore, make our retreat from these regions of fiction. 


( 420 a ) 


iiUES 

Why was history discoursed of fully, ! 
in the two preceding lectures ? Of the 
remaining species of composition in 
prose, what is observed ? What is the first 
instance given ? Why are not the style, 
form, and dress of such writings, mate¬ 
rial objects'? But why, at the same 
time, are they objects not to be neglect¬ 
ed ? What is it manifest, every philoso¬ 
phical writer must study, and what re¬ 
mark follows ? Beyond mere perspi¬ 
cuity, what are required ? How is this 
illustrated? What, then, have we a 
right to demand, from every philoso¬ 
phical writer ? But as he may possess 
this quality, and still be a very dry 
writer, what should he study; and 
why ? What is one of the most useful 
embellishments, which a philosopher 
can employ? What subjects afford 
scope for these ? What is their effect; 
and why ? What style does philosophi¬ 
cal writing admit ? What else does it 
admit ? About what, however, must he 
take great care ? What have some of 
the ancients left us ? Of Seneca, what 
is observed ? What, at the same time, 
cannot be denied ? What is said of Mr. 
Locke’s Treatise on Human Under¬ 
standing ; and of Lord Shaftesbury’s 
writings ? What form does philosophical 
composition sometimes assume ? By 
whom has this form been used? In 
what two ways may it be executed ? 
Of these different methods, what is ob¬ 
served ? Of a dialogue thus conducted, 
what is remarked? It requires more 
than what, and what ought it to be ? 
Why does a dialogue thus conducted, 
give the reader a very agreeable enter¬ 
tainment ? What, therefore, has an 
author who has genius for executing 
such a composition in his power ? Of 
the greater part of modern dialogue 
writers, what is observed ? How is this 
observation illustrated? From what re¬ 
marks does it appear that this is a very 
frigid and insipid manner of writing ? 
W T hat is said of the dialogues of Plato ? 
In what does Plato excel all writers, 
ancient or modern ? What is the only 
fault of his imagination? Into what 
does it frequently carry him ? In what, 
is the philosopher at times lost; and 
what remark follows ? What is obser¬ 
ved of Cicero’s dialogues ? What do 
they show us ? Who has, perhaps, ex¬ 
celled Cicero in this manner of writing? 
Of Lucian, as a dialogue writer, what 


riotfs. 

is observed? Of what kind of dialogue 
has he given us the model ? What dis¬ 
tinguishes all his writings ? What was 
his great object; andofthe method which 
he took, what is observed ? In what has 
he been followed by several modern 
authors? Who, in particular, has given 
us dialogues of*this sort, and what is 
said of them ? In the course of a dia¬ 
logue, what is a difficult task; and 
why ? Hence, what follows ? Who is 
one of the most remarkable writers of 
dialogues in the English language ? 
Of his dialogues, what is observed ? 
What is the character of Bishop 
Berkeley’s Dialogues? To what sub¬ 
ject does our author next proceed ? Into 
what does epistolary writing appear at 
first view to stretch; and why ? How 
is this remark illustrated ? But for 
what is this not sufficient? Of writing 
of this kind, what is further observed ? 
Even where one is writing a real letter, 
what is remarked ; and what instance 
is given ? In such cases, how do we 
consider the author ? When does epis¬ 
tolary writing become a distinct spe¬ 
cies of composition ? Of such an inter¬ 
course, what is observed; and when 
will they be the more valuable? Even 
when may they still be interesting, and 
more especially if there be any thing 
to interest us in what ? Hence, what 
curiosity; and why? To expect what 
is childish; and for what reason ? But 
still, why may we expect to see more 
of the character displayed in these 
than in any other productions ? With 
what do we please ourselves? Upon 
what, therefore, will much of the merit 
of epistolary writing depend ? What is 
its first and fundamental requisite; and 
why ? What does this not banish; and 
of these, what is observed ? Who will 
not please long ? Of the style of letters, 
what is remarked? What does all 
nicety about words betray; and hence 
what should be avoided? Which are 
the best letters? How is this illustrated? 
What ought, at the same time, to be 
remembered ? How is this remark illus¬ 
trated? What is the first requisite, both 
in conversation, and in correspondence? 
W T hat illustration of this remark fol¬ 
lows ? 

Of Pliny’s Letters, what is observed ? 
What is, indeed, a very difficult task ? 
What is the effect of attention to the 
opinion of the world, in what he says ?. 




420 b 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect. xxxvii. 


What is the character of Cicero’s Epis¬ 
tles ? Of them, what is farther observed ? 
From what does it appear that they were 
written without any intention of being; 
published to the world ? What do they 
contain ; and of what are they the last 
monument ? The greatest part of them 
being written when ? To whom does 
Cicero lay open his heart without 
reserve? Of his correspondence with 
others, what is remarked? What is the 
most distinguished collection of letters 
in the English language; and where 
are they published? What is the gene¬ 
ral character of this collection ? What 
is observed of those of Dr. Arbuthnot ? 
What proof is there that Dean Swift’s 
letters are unaffected ? What, however, 
were to be wished? Several of whose 
letters are masterly; and of Mr. Pope’s, 
what is observed ? What instance of af¬ 
fectation have we from a letter to Mr. 
Addison ; and also to Bishop Atterbury ? 
Of the latter sentence, what is obser¬ 
ved ? What appears to much advan¬ 
tage in the letters of French writers; 
and to what have they given birth ? In 
the last age, who were the two most 
celebrated epistolary writers? Why 
did Balzac’s reputation soon decline ? 
Why did Voiture continue long a fa¬ 
vourite author? What is his only fault? 
Whose letters are now esteemed the 
most accomplished model of a familiar 
correspondence ? Of them, what is fur¬ 
ther observed ? Of the letters of Lady 
Mary Wort ley Montague, what is re¬ 
marked? What other species of com¬ 
position remains to be treated of? How 
may these, at first view, seem ? What 
does Mr. FJetcher, in one of his tracts, 
quote, as the saying of a wise man ? 
Of this saying, what is observed; and 
why? Why might fictitious histories 
be employed for very useful purposes ? 
How is this illustrated ? Of what have 
these ever been the basis? What re¬ 
mark, therefore, follows? Of what does 
Lord Bacon take notice; and what 
does he observe? On what, therefore, 
shall we make a few observations ? 
Of its origin, what is remarked ? What 
is observed of the genius of eastern 
nations; and how is this illustrated? 
What is said of Arabian Nights Enter¬ 
tainments? Among the ancient Greeks, 
of what do we hear; and what is said 
of them? What fictitious histories still 
remain; and of them, what is observed? 
Of this sort of writing during the dark 
ages, what is remarked? What gave* 


rise, in those times, to that marvellous 
system of chivalry, which is one of the 
most singular appearances in the histo¬ 
ry of mankind ? Upon this, what were 
founded ? In them, what was display¬ 
ed ? What merit did they possess? How 
is this remark illustrated ? To what is 
the origin of this name traced; and by 
whom ? Which is the earliest of these 
romances ; and what is the subject of 
it ? For what celebrated poem is the 
same subject taken; and what is ob¬ 
served of it ? By what was the romance 
of Turpin followed? What was the 
effect of the crusades? Who, in the be¬ 
ginning of the last century, contributed 
greatly to explode this kind of writing; 
and what followed? What then ap¬ 
peared ; and how may these be consider¬ 
ed ? What were still preserved; but 
what was banished ? Still what objec¬ 
tion was there to them ? Hence, what 
form did this sort of composition soon as¬ 
sume ? Of these novels what is obser¬ 
ved ? Upon this plan, what have the 
French effected ? Of Gil Bias, what is 
observed ? What is the character of 
the works of Marivaux? Of the Nou- 
velle Heloise of Rousseau, what is re¬ 
marked? What is the stateof this kind 
of writing in Great Britain ? In what 
respects are we inferior to them; yet 
what remark follows ? To illustrate this, 
what work is mentioned; and what is 
observed of it? What is the character 
of Mr. Fielding’s novels; and how are 
his characters drawn? Why does his 
Tom Jones deserve much praise ? Who 
is the most moral of all our novel wri¬ 
ters ; and of him, what is observed ? 
What is remarked of the trivial per¬ 
formances which daily appear? 


ANALYSIS. 

1. Philosophical writing. 

a. Its object. 

b. Perspicuity, its first requisite. 

c. It admits of a polished, neat, and ele¬ 

gant style. 

2. Dialogue. 

a. A direct conversation. 

b. The recital of a conversation. 

c. Ancient and modern dialogists. 

3. Epistolary writing. 

a. When a distinct speciesof composition. 

b. It must acquaint us with the author. 

c. Distinguished ancient and modern 

epistolary writers. 

4. Fictitious history. 

a. Lord Bacon’s remark. 

b. Its origin, very ancient. 

c. Its different forme. 

The most distinguished productions 
of this kind. 








( 4*1 ) 


LECTURE XXXYIII. 


NATURE OF POETRY....ITS ORIGIN AND PRO¬ 
GRESS.... VERSIFICATION 

I have now finished my observations on the different kinds of 
writing in prose. What remains is, to treat of poetical composition. 
Before entering on the consideration of any of its particular kinds, I 
design this lecture as an introduction to the subject of poetry in 
general, wherein I shall treat of its nature, give an account of its ori¬ 
gin, and make some observations on versification, or poetical num¬ 
bers. 

Our first inquiry must be, What is poetry ? and wherein does it 
differ from prose ? The answer to this question is not so easy as 
might at first be imagined ; and critics have differed and disputed 
much, concerning the proper definition of poetry. Some have made 
its essence to consist in fiction, and support their opinion by the au¬ 
thority of Aristotle and Plato. But this is certainly too limited a de- 
finition; for though fiction may have a great share in many poetical 
compositions, yet many subjects of poetry may not be feigned; as 
where the poet describes objects which actually exist, or pours forth 
the real sentiments of his own heart. Others have made the cha¬ 
racteristic of poetry to lie in imitation. But this is altogether loose: 
for several other arts imitate as well as poetry; and an imitation of 
human manners and characters may be carried on in the humblest 
prose, no less than in the more lofty poetic strain. 

The most just and comprehensive definition which, I think, can 
be given of poetry, is, ( that it is the language of passion, or of en¬ 
livened imagination, formed, most commonly, into regular numbers/ 
The historian, the orator, the philosopher, address themselves, for 
the most part, primarily to the understanding: their direct aim is to 
inform, to persuade, or to instruct. But the primary aim of a poet 
is to please, and to move; and, therefore, it is to the imagination, and 
the passions, that he speaks. He may, and he ought to have it in 
his view, to instruct, and to reform ; but it is indirectly, and by pleas¬ 
ing and moving, that he accomplishes this end. His mind is sup 
posed to be animated by some interesting object which fires his ima¬ 
gination, or engages his passions; and which, of course, communi¬ 
cates to his style a peculiar elevation suited to his ideas; very differ¬ 
ent from that mode of expression, which is natural to the mind in 
its calm, ordinary state. I have added to my definition, that this 
language of passion, or imagination, is formed, most commonly , into 
regular numbers; because, though versification be, in general, the 
exterior distinction of poetry, yet there are some forms of verse 
so loose and familiar, as to be hardly distinguishable from prose; 
such as the verse of Terence’s Comedies; and there is also a species 
of prose, so measured in its cadence, and so much raised in its tone, 
3 P 


ORIGIN AND PROGRESS [lect. xxxviii. 


422 


as to approach very near to poetical numbers; such as the Telema- 
chus of Fenelon ; and the English translation of Ossian. The truth 
is, verse and prose, on some occasions, run into one another, like 
light and shade. It is hardly possible to determine the exact limit 
where eloquence ends, and poetry begins; nor is there any occasion 
for being very precise about the boundaries, as long as the nature of 
each is understood. These are the minutiae of criticism, concerning 
which, frivolous writers are always disposed to squabble; but which 
deserve not any particular discussion. The truth and justness of the 
definition, which I have given of poetry, will appear more fully from 
the account which I am now to give of its origin; and which will 
tend to throw light on much of what I am afterwards to deliver, 
concerning its various kinds. 

The Greeks, ever fond of attributing to their own nation the in¬ 
vention of all sciences and arts, have ascribed the origin of poetry 
to Orpheus, Linus, and Musaeus. There were, perhaps, such per¬ 
sons as these, who were the first distinguished bards in the Grecian 
countries. But long before such names were heard of, and among 
nations where they were never known, poetry existed. It is a great 
error to imagine, that poetry and music are arts which belong only 
to polished nations. They have their foundation in the nature of 
man, and belong to all nations, and to all ages; though, like other 
arts founded in nature, they have been more cultivated, and from a 
concurrence of favourable circumstances, carried to greater perfec¬ 
tion in some countries than in others. In order to explore the rise 
of poetry, we must have recourse to the deserts and the wilds; we 
must go back to the age of hunters and of shepherds; to the high¬ 
est antiquity; and to the simplest form of manners among mankind. 

It has been often said, and the concurring voice of all antiquity 
affirms, that poetry is older than prose. But in what sense this 
seemingly strange paradox holds true, has not always been well un¬ 
derstood. There never, certainly, was any period of society, in which 
men conversed together in poetical numbers. It was in very humble 
and scanty prose, as we may easily believe, that the first tribes car¬ 
ried on intercourse among themselves, relating to the wants and ne¬ 
cessities of life. But from the very beginning of society, there were 
occasions on which they met together for feasts, sacrifices, and pub¬ 
lic assemblies; and on all such occasions, it is well known, that mu¬ 
sic, song, and dance, made their principal entertainment. It is 
chiefly in America, that we have had the opportunity of being made 
acquainted with men in their savage state. We learn from the par¬ 
ticular and concurring accounts of travellers, that among all the na- 
tions of that vast continent, especially among the northern tribes, with 
whom we have had most intercourse, music and song are, at all theii 
meetings, carried on with an incredible degree of enthusiasm ; that 
the chiefs of the tribe are those who signalize themselves most on 
such occasions; that it is in songs they celebrate their religious 
rites; that by these they lament their public and private calamities, 
the death of friends, or the loss of warriors; express their joy on 
their victories; celebrate the great actions of their nation* and their 


1*£CT. XXXVIII.] 


OF POETRY. 


423 


heroes; excite each other to perform brave exploits in war, or suf¬ 
fer death and torments with unshaken constancy. 

Here then we see the first beginnings of poetic composition, in 
those rude effusions, which the enthusiasm of fancy or passion sug¬ 
gested to untaught men, when roused by interesting events, and by 
their meeting together in public assemblies. Two particulars would 
early distinguish this language of song, from that in which they con¬ 
versed on the common occurrences of life; namely, an unusual ar¬ 
rangement of words, and the employment of bold figures of speech. 
It would invert words, or change them from that order in which they 
are commonly placed, to that which most suited the train in which 
they rose in the speaker’s imagination, or which was most accommo¬ 
dated to the cadence of the passion by which he was moved. Undert.he 
influence too of any strong emotion, objects do not appear to us such 
as they really are, but such as passion makes us see them. We 
magnify and exaggerate; we seek to interest all others in what cau¬ 
ses our emotion; we compare the least things to the greatest; we 
call upon the absent as well as the present, and even address our¬ 
selves to things inanimate. Hence, in congruity with those various 
movements of the mind, arise those turns of expression, which we 
now distinguish by the learned names of hyperbole, prosopopoeia, 
simile, &c. but which are no other than the native original language 
of poetry among the mosit barbarous nations. 

Man is both a poet and a musician by nature. The same impulse 
which prompted the enthusiastic poetic style, prompted a certain 
melody, or modulation of ^ound, suited to the emotions of joy or 
grief, of admiration, love, or anger. There is a power in sound, 
which, partly from nature, partly from habit and association, makes 
such pathetic impressions on the fancy, as delight even the most wild 
barbarians. Music and poetry, therefore, had the same rise: they 
were prompted by the same occasions; they were united in song; 
and, as long as they continued united, they tended, without doubt, 
mutually to heighten and exalt each other’s power. The first poets 
sung their own verses; and hence the beginning of what we call 
versification, or words arranged in a more artful order than prose, so 
as to be suited to some tune or melody. The liberty of transposi¬ 
tion, or inversion, which the poetic style, as I observed, would natu¬ 
rally assume, made it easier to form the words into some sort of 
numbers that fell in with the music of the song. Very harsh and 
uncouth, we may easily believe, these numbers would be at first. 
But the pleasure was felt; it was studied ; and versification, by de¬ 
grees, passed into an art. 

It appears from what has been said, that the first compositions 
which were either recorded by writing, or transmitted by tradition, 
could be no other than poetical compositions. No other than these 
could draw the attention of men in their rude uncivilized state. In¬ 
deed, they knew no other. Cool reasoning and plain discourse had 
no power to attract savage tribes, addicted only to hunting and war. 
There was nothing that could either rouse the speaker to pour him¬ 
self forth, or to draw the crowd to listen, but the high powers of pas. 


424 


ORIGIN AND PROGRESS [lect. xxxvm. 


sion, of music, and of song. This vehicle, therefore, and no other, 
could be employed by chiefs and legislators, when they meant to in¬ 
struct or to animate their tribes. There is, likewise, a farther reason 
why such compositions only could be transmitted to posterity; be¬ 
cause, before writing was invented, songs only could last, and be re¬ 
membered. The ear gave assistance to the memory, by the help 
of numbers ; fathers repeated and sung them to their children ; and 
by this oral tradition of national ballads, were conveyed ail the his¬ 
torical knowledge, and all the instruction of the first ages. 

The earliest accounts which history gives us concerning all na¬ 
tions, bear testimony to these facts. In the first ages of Greece, priests, 
philosophers, and statesmen, all delivered their instructions in poetry. 
Apollo, Orpheus, and Amphion, their mostancient bards, are represent¬ 
ed as the first tamers of mankind, the first founders of law and civili¬ 
zation. Minos and Thales sung to the lyre the laws which they com¬ 
posed ;* and till the age immediately preceding that of Herodotus, 
history had appeared in no other form than that of poetical tales. 

In the same manner, among all other nations, poets and songs are 
the first objects that make their appearance. Among the Scythian 
or Gothic nations, many of their kings and leaders were scalders, or 
poets; and it is from their Runic songs, that the most early writers 
of their history, such as Saxo-Grammaticus, acknowledge that they 
Had derived their chief information. Among the Celtic tribes, in 
Gaul, Britain, and Ireland, we know in what admiration their bards 
were held, and how great influence they possessed over the people. 
They were both poets and musicians, as all the first poets, in every 
country, were. They were always near the person of the chief or 
sovereign ; they recorded all his great exploits; they were employ¬ 
ed as the ambassadors between contending tribes, and their persons 
were held sacred. 

From this deduction it follows, that as we have reason to look for 
poems and songs among the antiquities of all countries, so we may 
expect, that in the strain of these there will be a remarkable resem¬ 
blance, during the primitive periods of every country. The occa¬ 
sions of their being composed, are every where nearly the same. 
The praises of gods and heroes, the celebration of famed ancestors, 
the recital of martial deeds, songs of victory, and songs of lamenta¬ 
tion over the misfortunes and death of their countrymen, occur 
among all nations; and the same enthusiasm and fire, the same wild 
and irregular, but animated composition, concise and glowing 
style, bold and extravagant figures of speech, are the general distin¬ 
guishing characters of all the most ancient original poetry. That 
strong hyperbolical manner which we have been long accustomed 
to call the oriental manner of poetry, (because some of the earliest 
poetical productions came to us from the East,) is in truth no more 
oriental than occidental; it is characteristical of an age rather than of 
a country; and belongs, in some measure, to all nations at that pe¬ 
riod which first gives rise to music and to song. Mankind never re- 


Strabo. lib. x 




LECT. XXXVIII. J 


OF POETRY. 


425 


semble each other so much as they do in the beginnings of society. 
Its subsequent revolutions give birth to the principal distinctions of 
character among nations, and divert, into channels widely separated, 
that current of human genius and manners, which descends origin¬ 
ally from one spring. 

Diversity of climate, and of manner of living, will, however, oc¬ 
casion some diversity in the strain of the first poetry of nations; 
chiefly according as those nations are of a more ferocious, or of a 
more gentle spirit; and according as they advance faster or slower 
in the arts of civilization. Thus we find all the remains of the an¬ 
cient Gothic poetry remarkably fierce, and breathing nothing but 
slaughter and blood; while the Peruvian and the Chinese songs 
turned, from the earliest times, upon milder subjects. The Celtic 
poetry, in the days of Ossian, though chiefly of the martial kind, 
yet had attained a considerable mixture of tenderness and refine¬ 
ment ; in consequence of the long cultivation of poetry among the 
Celtae, by means of a series and succession of bards which had been 
established for ages. So Lucan informs us : 

Vos quoque qui fortes animos, belloque perempt.os 
Laudibus in longum vates diffunditis aevum, 

Plurima securi fudistis carmina bardi.* L. 44. 

Among the Grecian nations, their early poetry appears to have 
soon received a philosophical cast, from what we are informed con¬ 
cerning the subjects of Orpheus, Linus, and Musaeus,who treated of 
creation and of chaos, of the generation of the world, and of the 
rise of things; and we know that the Greeks advanced sooner to 
philosophy, and proceeded with a quicker pace in all the arts of re¬ 
finement, than most other nations. 

The Arabians and the Persians have always been the greatest po¬ 
ets of the east; and among them, as among other nations, poetry 
was the earliest vehicle of all their learning and instruction.! The 
ancient Arabs, we are informed,! valued themselves much on their 
metrical compositions, which were of two sorts; the one they com¬ 
pared to loose pearls, and the other to pearls strung. In the former, 
the sentences or verses were without connexion ; and their beauty 
arose from the elegance of the expression, and the acuteness of the 
sentiment. The moral doctrines of the Persians were generally 
comprehended in such independent proverbial apophthegms, formed 
into verse. In this respect they bear a considerable resemblance to 
the Proverbs of Solomon; a great part of which book consists of 
unconnected poetry, like the loose pearls of the Arabians. The 
same form of composition appears also in the book of Job. The 

* You too, ye bards, whom sacred raptures fire, 

To chaunt your heroes to your country’s lyre, 

Who consecrate in your immortal strain, 

Brave patriot souls in righteous battle slain ; 

Securely now the useful task renew, 

And noblest themes in deathless songs pursue. Rowe. 

f Vid. Voyages de Chardin, chap de la PotJsie des Persans. 

J Vid. Preliminary discourse to Sale’s Translation of the Koran. 

54 



426 


ORIGIN AND PROGRESS [lect. xxxviii. 

Greeks seem to have been the first who introduced a more regular 
structure, and closer connexion of parts, into their poetical writings. 

During the infancy of poetry, all the different kinds of it lay 
confused, and were mingled in the same composition, according 
as inclination, enthusiasm, or casual incidents, directed the po¬ 
et’s strain. In the progress of society and arts, they began to 
assume those different regular forms, and to be distinguished by 
those different names under which we now know them. But in 
the first rude state of poetical effusions, we can easily discern the 
seeds and beginnings of all the kinds of regular poetry. Odes and 
hymns, of every sort, would naturally be among the first compo¬ 
sitions; according as the bards were moved by religious feelings, 
by exultation, resentment, love, or any other warm sentiment, to 
pour themselves forth in song. Plaintive or elegiac poetry, would 
as naturally arise from lamentations over their deceased friends. 
The recital of the achievements of their heroes, and their ancestors, 
gave birth to what we now call epic poetry ; and as not content with 
simply reciting these, they would infallibly be led, at some of their 
public meetings, to represent them, by introducing different bards, 
speaking in the character of their heroes, and answering each other, 
we find in this the first outlines of tragedy, or dramatic, writing. 

None of these kinds of poetry, however, were in the first ages 
of society properly distinguished or separated, as they are now, 
from each other. Indeed, not only were the different kinds of 
poetry then mixed together, but all that we now call letters, or 
composition of any kind, was then blended in one mass. At first, 
history, eloquence, and poetry, were all the same. Whoever want¬ 
ed to move or to persuade, to inform or to entertain his countrymen 
and neighbours, whatever was the subject, accompanied his sentiment 
and tales with the melody of song. This was the case in that period 
of society, when the character and occupations of the husbandman 
and the builder, the warrior and the statesman, were united in one 
person. When the progress of society brought on a separation of the 
different arts and professions of civil life, it led also by degrees to a 
separation of the different literary provinces from each other. 

The art of writing was in process of time invented; records of 
past transactions began to be kept; men, occupied with the subjects 
of policy and useful arts, wished now to be instructed and inform¬ 
ed, as well as moved. They reasoned and reflected upon the 
affairs of life; and were interested by what was real, not fabulous, 
in past transactions. The historian, therefore, now laid aside the 
buskins of poetry ; he wrote in prose, and attempted to give a 
faithful and judicious relation of former events. The philosopher 
addressed himself chiefly to the understanding. The orator stu¬ 
died to persuade by reasoning, and retained "more or less of the 
ancient passionate and glowing style, according as it was conducive 
to his purpose. Poetry became now a separate art, calculated 
chiefly to please, and confined generally to such subjects as related 
to the imagination and passions. Even its earliest companion, music, 
was in a great measure divided from it. 


X.ECT. XXXVIII.] 


OF POETRY. 


427 


These separations, brought all the literary arts into a more regular 
torm, and contributed to the exact and accurate cultivation of 
each. Poetry, however, in its ancient original condition, was per¬ 
haps more vigorous than it is in its modern state. It included 
then the whole burst of the human mind; the whole exertion of its 
imaginative faculties. It spoke then the language of passion, and 
no other; for to passion, it owed its birth. Prompted and inspired 
by objects, which to him seemed great, by events which interested 
his country or his friends, the early bard arose and sung. He sung 
indeed in wild and disorderly strains; but they were the native effu¬ 
sions of his heart; they were the ardent conceptions of admiration 
or resentment, of sorrow or friendship, which he poured forth. It 
is no wonder, therefore, that in the rude and artless strain of the 
first poetry of all nations, we should often find somewhat that capti¬ 
vates and transports the mind. In after ages, when poetry became 
a regular art, studied for reputation and for gain, authors began to 
affect what they did not feel. Composing coolly in their closets, 
they endeavoured to imitate passion, rather than to express it; they 
tried to force their imagination into raptures, or to supply the defect 
of native warmth, by those artificial ornaments which might give 
composition a splendid appearance. 

The separation of music from poetry, produced consequences not 
favourable in some respects to poetry, and in many respects hurtful 
to music.* As long as they remained united, music enlivened and 
animated poetry, and poetry gave force and expression to musi¬ 
cal sound. The music of that early period was, beyond doubt, ex¬ 
tremely simple; and must have consisted chiefly of such pathetic 
notes, as the voice could adapt to the words of the song. Musical 
instruments, such as flutes, and pipes, and a lyre with a very few 
strings, appear to have been early invented among some nations; but 
no more was intended by these instruments, than simply to accom¬ 
pany the voice, and to heighten the melody of song. The poet’s 
strain was always heard ; and, from many circumstances, it appears, 
that among the ancient Greeks, as well as among other nations, the 
bard sung his verses, and played upon his harp or lyre at the same 
time. In this state, the art of music was,when it produced all those 
great effects, of which we read so much in ancient history. And 
certain it is, that from simple music only, and from music accom¬ 
panied with verse or song, we are to look for strong expression, 
and powerful influence over the human mind. When instrumental 
music came to be studied as a separate art, divested of the poet’s 
song, and formed into the artificial and intricate combinations of 
harmony, it lost all its ancient power of inflaming the hearers with 
strong emotions; and sunk into an art of mere amusement, among 
polished and luxurious nations. 

Still, however, poetry preserves, in all countries, some remains 
of its first and original connexion with music. By being uttered 

* See Dr. Brown’s Dissertation on the Rise, Union, and Separation of Poetry and 
Music. 



428 


VERSIFICATION. 


[lect. XXXVIII. 


in song, it was formed into numbers, or into an artificial arrangement 
of words and syllables, very different in different countries; but such, 
as to the inhabitants of each, seemed most melodious and agree¬ 
able in sound. Whence arises thatgreat characteristic of poetry which 
we now call verse; a subject which comes next to be treated of. 

It is a subject of a curious nature ; but as I am sensible, that were 
I to pursue it as far as my inclination leads, it would give rise to 
discussions, which the greater part of readers would consider as 
minute, I shall confine myself to a few observations upon English 
versification. 

Nations, whose language and pronunciation were of a musicai 
kind, rested their versification chiefly upon the quantities, that is, 
the length or shortness of their syllables. Others, who did not make 
the quantities of their syllables be so distinctly perceived in pro¬ 
nouncing them, rested the melody of their verse upon the number 
of syllables it contained, upon the proper disposition of accents and 
pauses in it, and frequently upon that return of corresponding sounds, 
which we call rhyme. The former was the case with the Greeks 
and Romans; the latter is the case with us, and with most modern 
nations. Among the Greeks and Romans, every syllable, or the far 
greatest number at least, was known to have a fixed and determined 
quantity ; and their manner of pronouncing rendered this so sensible 
to the ear, that a long syllable was counted precisely equal in time 
to two short ones. Upon this principle, the number of syllables con¬ 
tained in their hexameter verse was allowed to vary. It may extend 
to 17; it can contain, when regular, no fewer than 13; but the mu¬ 
sical time was, notwithstanding, precisely the same in every hexa¬ 
meter verse, and was always equal to that of 12 long syllables. In order 
to ascertain the regular time of every verse, and the proper mixture 
and succession of long and short syllables which ought to compose 
it, were invented, what the grammarians call metrical feet, dactyles, 
spondees, iambus, &c. By these measures was tried the accuracy of 
composition in every line, and whether it was so constructed as to 
complete its proper melody. It was requisite, for instance, that the 
hexameter verse should have the quantity of its syllables so disposed, 
that it could be scanned or measured by six metrical feet, which 
might be either dactyles or spondees (as the musical time of both 
these is the same) with this restriction only, that the fifth foot was 
regularly to be a dactyle, and the last a spondee.* 


* Some writers imagine, that the feet in Latin verse were intended to correspond 
to bars in music, and to form musical intervals or distinctions, sensible to the ear 
in the pronunciation of the line. Had this been the case, every kind of verse must 
have had a peculiar order of feet appropriated to it. But the common prosodies 
show that there are several forms of Latin verse which are capable of being mea¬ 
sured indifferently, by a series of feet of very different kinds. For instance, what is 
called the Asclepedaean verse (in which the first ode of Horace is written) may be 
scanned either by a Spondeus, two Choriambus’s, and a Pyrrichius ; or by a Spon- 
deus, a Dactylus succeeded by a Caesura, and two Dactylus’s. The common Penta¬ 
meter, and some other forms of verse, admit the like varieties; and yet the melody 
of the verse, remains always the same, though it be scanned by different feet. This 
proves, that the metrical feet were not sensible in the pronunciation of the line, but 
were intended only to regulate its construction ; or applied as measures, to try 




LECT. XXXVIII.] 


VERSIFICATION. 


429 


The introduction of these feet into English verse, would be alto¬ 
gether out of place; for the genius of our language corresponds not 
in this respect to Greek or Latin. I say not, that we have no 
regard to quantity, or to long and short, in pronouncing. Many 
words we have, especially our words consisting of several syllables, 
where the quantity, or the long and short syllables, are invariably 
fixed; but great numbers we have also, where the quantity is left al¬ 
together loose. This is the case with a great part of our words con¬ 
sisting of two syllables, and with almost all our monosyllables. 
In general, the difference made between long and short syllables, in 
our manner of pronouncing them,is so very inconsiderable, and so 
much liberty is left us for making them either long or short at plea¬ 
sure, that mere quantity is of very little effect in English versification. 
The only perceptible difference among our syllables, arises from 
some of them being uttered with that stronger percussion of voice, 
which we call accent. This accent does not always make the sylla¬ 
ble longer, hut gives it more force of sound only; and it is upon a 
certain order and succession of accented and unaccented syllables, 
infinitely more than upon their being long or short, that the melody 
of our verse depends. If we take any of Mr. Pope’s lines, and in 
reciting them alter the quantity of the syllables, as far as our quanti¬ 
ties are sensible, the music of the verse will not be much injured: 
whereas, if we do not accent the syllables according as the verse 
dictates, its melody will be totally destroyed.* * 

Our English heroic verse is of what may be called an iambic struc¬ 
ture ; that is, composed of a succession, nearly alternate, of syllables, 
not short and long, but unaccented and accented. With regard to 
the place of these accents, however, some liberty is admitted, for the 
sake of variety. Very often, though not always, the line begins with 
an unaccented syllable; and sometimes, in the course of it, two un¬ 
accented syllables follow each other. But in general, there are 
either five, or four, accented syllables in each line. The number of 
syllables is ten, unless where an Alexandrine verse is occasionally ad¬ 
mitted. In verses not Alexandiine, instances occur where the line 
appears to have more than the limited number. But in such instan¬ 
ces, I apprehend it will be found, that some of the liquid syllables are 


whether the succession of long and short syllables was such as suited the melody 
of the verse; and as feet of different kinds could sometimes be applied for this 
purpose, hence it happened, that some forms of verse were capable of being scan¬ 
ned in different ways. For measuring the hexameter line, no other feet were 
found so proper as dactyles and spondees, and therefore by these it is uniformly 
scanned. But no ear is sensible of the termination of each foot, in reading an hex¬ 
ameter line. From a misapprehension of this matter, I apprehend that confusion 
has sometimes arisen among writers, in treating of the prosody both of Latin and of 
English verse. 

* See this well illustrated in Lord Monboddo’s Treatise of The Origin and Progress of 
Language, vol. ii. under the head of the prosody of language. He shows that this is 
not only the constitution of our own verse, but that, by our manner of reading Latin 
verse, we make its music nearly the same. For we certainly do not pronounce it ac¬ 
cording to the ancient quantities, so as to make the musical time of one long syllable 
equal to two short ones ; but according to a succession of accented and unaccented sylla¬ 
bles, only mixed in a ratio different from that of our own verse. No Roman could pos¬ 
sibly understand our pronunciation. 



4S0 VERSIFICATION. [lect. xxxvili. 

so slurred in pronouncing, as to bring the verse, with respect to its 
effect upon the ear, within the usual bounds. 

Another essential circumstance in the constitution of our verse, is 
the caesural pause, which falls towards the middle of each line. 
Some pause of this kind, dictated by the melody, is found in the 
verse of most nations. It is found, as might be shown, in the Latin 
hexameter. In the French heroic verse it is very sensible. That 
is a verse of twelve syllables; and in every line, just after the sixth 
syllable,there falls regularly and indispensably a caesural pause, di¬ 
viding the line into two equal hemisticks. For example, in the first 
lines of Boileau’s Epistle to the King: 

Jeune &. vaillant heros | dont la haute sagesse 
N’est point le fruit tardif | d’un'e lente vieillesse, 

Qui seul sans Ministre | a l’example des Dieux, 

Soutient tout par toi-meme | &. voit tous par tes yeux. 

In this train all their verses proceed ; the one half of the line always 
answering to the other, and the same chime returning incessantly on 
the ear without intermission or change ; which is certainly a defect 
in their verse, and unfits it so very much for the freedom and dignity 
of heroic poetry. On the other hand, it is a distinguishing advan¬ 
tage of our English verse, that it allows the pause to be varied 
through four different syllables in the line. The pause may fall 
after the 4th, the 5th, the 6th, or the 7th syllable; and according as 
the pause is placed after one or other of these syllables, the melody of 
the verse is much changed, its air and cadence are diversified. By 
this means, uncommon richness and variety are added to English 
versification. 

When the pause falls earliest, that is, after the 4th syllable, the 
briskest melody is thereby formed, and the most spirited air given 
to the line. In the following lines of the Rape of the Lock, Mr. 
Pope has, with exquisite propriety, suited the construction of the 
verse to the subject. 

On her white breast | a sparkling cross she wore. 

Which Jews might kiss | and infidels adore; 

Her lively looks | a sprightly mind disclose, 

Quick as her eyes | and as unfix’d as those. 

Favours to none, | to all she smiles extends, 

Oft she rejects, | but never once offends. 

When the pause falls after the 5th syllable, which divides the line 
into two equal portions, the melody is sensibly altered. The verse 
loses that brisk and sprightly air, which it had with the former pause, 
and becomes more smooth, gentle, and flowing. 

Eternal sunshine | of the spotless mind, 

Each prayer accepted j and each wish resign’d. 

When the pause proceeds to follow the 6th syllable, the tenour of 
the music becomes solemn and grave. The verse marches now 
with a more slow and measured pace, than in any of the two for¬ 
mer cases. 

The wrath of Peleus’ son, | the direful spring 
Of all the Grecian woes, j 0 goddess sing! 


LECT. XXXVIII.] 


VERSIFICATION. 


431 


But the grave, solemn cadence becomes still more sensible, when 
the pause falls after the 7th syllable, which is the nearest place to 
the end ol the line that it can Occupy. This kind of verse occurs 
the seldomest, but has a happy effect in diversifying the melody. It 
produces that slow Alexandrine air which is finely suited to a close; 
and for this reason, such lines almost never occur together, but are 
used in finishing the couplet. 

And in the smooth description | murmur still, 

Long lov’d, ador’d ideas ! ) all adieu. 

I have taken my examples from verses in rhyme; because in 
these, our versification is subjected to the. strictest law. As blank 
verse is of a freer kind, and naturally is read with less cadence or 
tone,the pauses, in it, and the effect of them, are not always so sen¬ 
sible to the ear. It is constructed, however, entirely upon the same 
principles with respect to the place of the pause. There are some 
who, in order to exalt the variety and the power of our heroic verse, 
have maintained that it admits of musical pauses, not only after 
those four syllables, where I-assigned their place, but after any one 
sjdlable in the verse indifferently, where the sense directs it to be 
placed. This, in my opinion, is the same thing as to maintain that 
there is no pause at all belonging to the natural melody of the verse; 
since, according to this notion, the pause is formed entirely by the 
meaning, not by the music. But this I apprehend to be contrary 
both to the nature of versification, and the experience of every 
good ear.* Those certainly are the happiest lines, wherein the 
pause, prompted by the melody, coincides in some degree with that 
of the sense, or at least does not tend to spoil or interrupt the mean¬ 
ing. Wherever any opposition between the music and the sense 
chances to take place, I observed before, in treating of pronunciation 
or delivery, that the proper method of reading these lines, is to read 
them according as the sense dictates, neglecting or slurring the cae- 
sural pause ; which renders the line less graceful indeed, but, how¬ 
ever, does not entirely destroy its sound. 

Our blank verse possesses great advantages, and is indeed a noble, 
bold, and disencumbered species of versification. The principal 
defect in rhyme, is the full close which it forces upon the ear, at 
the end of every couplet. Blank verse is freed from this ; and al¬ 
lows the lines to run into each other with as great liberty as the La¬ 
tin hexameter permits, perhaps with greater. Hence it is particu¬ 
larly suited to subjects of dignity and force, which demand more 


* In the Italian heroic verse, employed by Tasso in his Gierusalemme, and 
Ariosto in his Orlando, the pauses are of the same varied nature with those which 
I have shown to belong to English versification, and fall after the same four sylla¬ 
bles in the line. Marmontel, in his PoCtique Frar^oise, vol. i. p. 269, takes no¬ 
tice, that the construction of verse is common to the Italians and the English; and 
defends the uniformity of the French csesural pause upon this ground, that the al¬ 
ternation of masculine and feminine rhymes furnishes sufficient variety to the French 
poetry; whereas the change of movement occasioned by the four different pauses in 
English and Italian verse, produces, according to him, too great diversity. On the head 
of pauses in English versification, see the Elements of Criticism, chap 18, sect. 4. 



432 


VERSIFICATION. 


[lect. XXXVIII. 


free and manly numbers than rhyme. The constraint and strict re¬ 
gularity of rhyme, are unfavourable to the sublime, or to the highly 
pathetic strain. An epic poem, or a tragedy, would be fettered and 
degraded by it. It is best adapted to compositions of a temperate 
strain, where no particular vehemence is required in the sentiments, 
nor great sublimity in the style; such as pastorals, elegies, epistles, 
satires, &c. To these, it communicates that degree of elevation 
which is proper for them ; and without any other assistance suffi¬ 
ciently distinguishes the style from prose. He who should write 
such poems in blank verse, would render his work harsh and un¬ 
pleasing. In order to support a poetical style, he would be obliged 
to affect a pomp of language unsuitable to the subject. 

Though I join m opinion with those, who think that rhyme finds 
its proper place in the middle, but not in the higher regions of poe¬ 
try, 1 can by no means join in the invectives which some have pour¬ 
ed out against it, as if it were a mere barbarous jingling of sounds, 
fit only for children, and owing to nothing but the corruption of taste 
in the monkish ages. Rhyme might indeed be barbarous in Latin 
or Greek verse, because these languages, by the sonorousness of their 
words, by their liberty of transposition and inversion, by their fixed 
quantities and musical pronunciation, could carry on the melody of 
verse without its aid. But it does not follow, that therefore it must 
be barbarous in the English language, which is destitute of these ad¬ 
vantages, Every language has powers and graces, and music pecu¬ 
liar to itself; and what is becoming in one, would be ridiculous in 
another. Rhyme was barbarous in Latin ; and an attempt to con¬ 
struct English verses, after the form of hexameters, and pentameters, 
and sapphics, is as barbarous among us. It is not true, that rhyme 
is merely a monkish invention. On the contrary, it has obtained 
under different forms, in the versification of most known nations. It 
is found in the ancient poetry of the northern nations of Europe ; it 
is said to be found among the Arabs, the Persians, the Indians, and 
the Americans. This shows that there is something in the return 
of similar sounds, which is grateful to the ears of most part of man¬ 
kind. And if any one, after reading Mr. Pope’s Rape of the Lock, 
or Eloisa to Abelard, shall not admit our rhyme, with all its varieties 
of pauses, to carry both elegance and sweetness of sound, his ear 
must be pronounced to be of a very peculiar kind. 

The present form of our English heroic rhyme in couplets, is a 
modern species of versification. The measure generally used in the 
days of Queen Elizabeth, King James, and King Charles I. was the 
stanza of eight lines, such as Spenser employs, borrowed from the 
Italian ; a measure very constrained and artificial. Waller was the 
first who brought couplets into vogue; and Dry den afterwards estab¬ 
lished the usage. Waller first smoothed our verse; Dryden perfected 
it. Mr. Pope’s versification has a peculiar character. It is flow¬ 
ing and smooth in the highest degree; far more laboured and cor¬ 
rect than that of any who went before him. He introduced one 
considerable change into verse, by totally throwing aside the trip¬ 
lets, or three lines rhyming together, in which Mr. Dryden abound- 


LECT. XXXVIII.] 


QUESTIONS. 


ed. Dryden’s versification, however, has very great merit; and, like 
all his productions, has much spirit, mixed with carelessness. If not 
so smooth and correct as Pope’s, it is, however, more varied and easy. 
He subjects himself less to the rule of closing the sense with the coup¬ 
let ; and frequently takes the liberty of making his couplets run into 
one another, with somewhat of the freedom of blank verse. 


QUESTIONS. 


On what has our author now finish¬ 
ed his observations; and what remains? 
As what does our author design this 
lecture; and in what manner does 
he propose to treat it? What is our 
first inquiry? Of the answer to this 
question, what is observed ? In what 
have some made its essence to consist, 
and by what authority do they support 
their opinion ? How does it appear that 
this is too limited a definition ? Why is 
it too loose to make the characteristics 
of poetry lie in imitation ? What is the 
most just and comprehensive definition 
which can be given of poetry ? How is 
this definition fully illustrated ? What 
has our author added to this definition; 
and why ? How nearly do verse and 
prose approach each other; and what 
remarks follow ? From what will the 
truth and justness of the definition 
given, appear? To whom have the 
Greeks ascribed the origin of poetry ? 
Of such persons as these, what is re¬ 
marked ? To imagine what, is a great 
error; and why ? In order to explore 
the rise of poetry, to what must we 
have recourse? What has been often 
said ? What period of society never 
existed ? What illustration, then, of the 
paradox, that poetry is older than prose, 
lollows ? Where, only, have we had an 
opportunity of being made acquainted 
with men in their savage state? Of 
them, what do we learn from concur¬ 
ring accounts of travellers ? Here, then, 
in what do we see the beginnings of 
poetic composition ? What two parti¬ 
culars would early distinguish this 
language of song ? How is this illus¬ 
trated? What influence do strong emo¬ 
tions exert over the passions ; and what 
do we, consequently, do? Hence, what 
arises ? What is man by nature; and 
how is this remark illustrated ? What, 
therefore, follows? As the first poets 
sung their own verses, of what was this 
the beginning? What fell in with the 


music of the song ? What was the ear¬ 
ly character of these members; but 
what followed? From what has been 
said, what appears? From what does 
it appear that they knew no other than 
these? What,therefore, follows? What 
farther reason is there why such com¬ 
positions only, could be transmitted to 
posterity ? How is this illustrated ? 
What bear testimony to these facts; 
and of this remark, what illustrations 
follow ? How does it appear, that, in 
the same manner, among all other na¬ 
tions, poets and songs are the first ob¬ 
jects that make their appearance? 
From this deduction, what follows; 
and why ? What occur among all na¬ 
tions; and what are the general dis¬ 
tinguishing characters of all the most 
ancient original poetry? Of that strong 
hyperbolical manner, which we have 
long been accustomed to call the orien 
tal manner of poetry, what is obser¬ 
ved? When do mankind most resemble 
each other ? What is the effect of its 
subsequent revolutions ? What influ¬ 
ence has diversity of climate, and 
manners of living, on the first, poetry of' 
nations ? Of this remark, what illus¬ 
trations are given? Repeat the passage 
from Lucan. From what does it ap¬ 
pear that the early poetry of the Gre¬ 
cian nations assumed a philosophical 
cast? Who have always been the 
greatest poets of the east; and among 
them, of what was poetry the vehicle ? 
Of the ancient Arabs, what are we in¬ 
formed ? Of what two sorts were they ? 
Of the former, what is observed ? Who 
seem to have been the first who intro¬ 
duced a more regular structure, and 
closer connexion of parts, into their 
poetical writings ? What was the state 
of poetry during its infancy ? In the 
progress of society and arts, what did 
they begin to assume ? But in the first 
rude state of poetical effusions, what ma\ 
easily be discerned? How is this re 





433 a 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect. xxxviii. 


mark illustrated? Of all of these kinds 
of poetry, however, what is observed ? 
What, also, was then blended in one 
mass ? How is this illustrated ? In 
what period of society was this the 
case ? When was this order changed ? 

W T hat effect was produced by the in¬ 
vention of the art of writing ? What 
effect did this produce on the histo¬ 
rian, the philosopher, and the orator? 
W 7 hat did poetry now become ? W'hat 
was the effect of these separations ? 
From what, however, does it appear 
that poetry, in its ancient, original con¬ 
dition, was perhaps more vigorous than 
it is in its modern state? What, there¬ 
fore, is not to be wondered at ? When 
did authors begin to affect what they 
did not feel; and what was the conse¬ 
quence? Of the separation of music 
from poetry, what is remarked ? How 
is this remark illustrated ? Of the mu¬ 
sic, and of the musical instruments of 
that early period, what is observed; 
and what follows ? What is certain ? 
When did music lose all its ancient 
power of inflaming the hearers with 
strong emotions; and into what did it 
sink ? What does poetry, in all nations, 
still preserve? Whence arises that 
great characteristic of poetry which we- 
now call verse ? Why does our author 
confine himself to a few observations 
upon English versification ? Upon 
what did nations, whose language and 
pronunciation were of a musical kind, 
rest their versification ? Upon what did 
others, who did not make the quantities 
of their syllables so distinctly perceived 
in pronouncing them, rest them ? The 
former was the case with whom, and 
with whom is the latter? Among the 
Greeks and Romans, of every syllable, 
what is remarked ?. Upon this principle, 
to what extent was the number of syl¬ 
lables contained in their hexameter 
verse, allowed to vary? In order to 
ascertain the regular time of every 
verse, what were invented ? By these 
measures, what were tried ? How is 
this illustrated ? Why would the intro¬ 
duction of these feet into English verse, 
be entirely out of place ? What illus¬ 
tration of this remark follows? With 
what words is this the case ? Of the dif¬ 
ference, in general, made between long 
and short syllables, in our manner of 
pronouncing them, what is observed ? 
From what does the only perceptible 
difference, among our syllables, arise ? 


What isremarxedof this accent? How 
is this illustrated ? Of what structure is 
our English heroic verse ? With regard 
to the place of these accents, what re¬ 
marks are made ? What is another es¬ 
sential circumstance in the construc¬ 
tion of our verse ? In what other verse 
is it found 1 Of its use in French, what 
is observed; and by what example is 
this illustrated ? On French verses, 
what is farther remarked ? On the 
other hand, what is a distinguishing 
advantage of our English verse ? After 
what syllables may the pause fall, and 
what remark follows ? By this means, 
what are added to English versifica¬ 
tion ? W'hat effect is produced, when 
the pause falls earliest, or after the 
fourth syllable ? By what example is 
this illustrated ? When the pause falls 
after the fifth syllable, what is its ef¬ 
fect, and what does the verse then 
lose ? Repeat the example. When 
the pause follows the sixth syllable, 
what air does the tenour of the music 
assume ? By what example is this il¬ 
lustrated ? But when does the grave, 
solemn cadence, become still more sen¬ 
sible ? Of this kind of verse, what is 
observed ; and what example is given ? 
Why has our author taken his exam¬ 
ples from verses in rhyme ? Of blank 
verse, what is here observed? With 
regard to our verse, what have some 
maintained? This, in the opinion of 
our author, is the same thing as what; 
and why ? To what is this apprehend 
ed to be contrary; and for what rea¬ 
son? How are blank verse and rhyme 
contrasted? With what opinion does 
our author coincide, yet, in what in¬ 
vectives can he not join ? Why might 
rhyme be barbarous in Latin or Greek 
verse ? But what does not, therefore, 
follow ? How are these remarks illus¬ 
trated ? How does it appear to be not 
true, that rhyme is merely a monkish 
invention ? What do these instances 
show ; and what remark follows ? Of 
the present form of our English rhyme, 
in couplets, what is observed ? What 
measure was generally used in the 
days of Queen Elizabeth; and what is 
observed of it ? Who first brought coup¬ 
lets into vogue; and who established 
the usage ? Of them, what is farther 
remarked ? What is the character of 
Mr. Pope’s versification? How does 
Drvden compare with him ? 






LECT. XXXIX.] 


QUESTIONS. 


433 b 


ANALYSIS. 

1. The definition of poetry. 

2. Its origin and antiquity. 

3. Its ancient characteristics. 

4. The different kinds, not distinguished. 

5. The influence of the invention of the art 

of writing - . 

6. The separation of music from verse. 

7. The nature of verse. 


a. English versification. 

a. The effects of the ctcsural pause. 

when differently placed. 

(a.) After the fourth syllable. 

(b.) After the fifth syllable. 

(c.) After the sixth syllable. 

(d.) After the seventh syllable. 

b. The character of our blank verse, 
(a.) Blank verse contrasted with 

rhyme. 


LECTURE XXXIX. 


PASTORAL POETRY.—LYRIC POETRY. 

In the last lecture, I gave an account of the rise and progress of 
poetry, and made some observations on the nature of English versi¬ 
fication. I now proceed to treat of the chief kinds of poetical com¬ 
position, and of the critical rules that relate to them. I shall follow 
that order which is most simple and natural; beginning with the 
lesser forms of poetry, and ascending from them to the epic and dra¬ 
matic, as the most dignified. This lecture shall be employed on 
pastoral and lyric poetry. 

Though I begin with the consideration of pastoral poetry, it is not 
because I consider it as one of the earliest forms of poetical com¬ 
position. On the contrary, I am of opinion that it was not cultivated 
as a distinct species, or subject of writing, until society had advanced 
in refinement. Most authors have, indeed, indulged the fancy, that 
because the life which mankind at first led was rural, therefore their 
first poetry was pastoral, or employed in the celebration of rural 
scenes and objects. I make no doubt, that it would borrow many of 
its images and allusions from those natural objects with which men 
were best acquainted; but I am persuaded, that the calm and 
tranquil scenes of rural felicity were not, by any means, the first ob¬ 
jects which inspired that strain of composition, which we now call 
poetry. It was inspired, in the first periods of every nation, by 
events and objects which roused men’s passions ; or, at least, awa¬ 
kened their wonder and admiration. The actions of their gods and 
heroes, their own exploits in war, the successes or misfortunes of 
their countrymen and friends, furnished the first themes to the bards 
of every country. What was of a pastoral kind in their composi¬ 
tions, was incidental only. They did not think of choosing for their 
theme the tranquillity and the pleasures of the country, as long as 
these were daily and familiar objects to them. It was not till men 
had begun to be assembled in great cities, after the distinctions of 
rank and station were formed, and the bustle of courts and large so¬ 
cieties was known, that pastoral poetry assumed its present form. 
Men then began to look back upon the more simple and innocent life 
which their forefathers led, or which, at least, they fancied them to 
have led : they looked back upon it with pleasure, and in those rural 







434 


PASTORAL POETRY. 


[lect. XXXIX. 


scenes, and pastoral occupations, imagining a degree of felicity to 
take place, superior to what they now enjoyed, conceived the idea 
of celebrating it in poetry. It was in the court of King Ptolemy, that 
Theocritus wrote the first pastorals with which we are acquainted; 
and, in the court of Augustus, he was imitated by Virgil. 

But whatever may have been the origin of pastoral poetry, it is 
undoubtedly a natural and very agreeable form of poetical compo¬ 
sition. It recalls to our imagination those gay scenes, and pleasing 
views of nature, which commonly are the delight of our childhood 
and youth; and to which, in more advanced years, the greatest part 
of men recur with pleasure. It exhibits to us a life, with which we 
are accustomed to associate the ideas of peace, of leisure, and of in¬ 
nocence ; and, therefore, we readily set open our heart to such repre¬ 
sentations as promise to banish from our thoughts the cares of the 
world; and to transport us into calm elysian regions. At the same 
time, no subject seems to be more favourable to poetry. Amidst 
rural objects, nature presents,on all hands, the finest field for descrip¬ 
tion ; and nothing appears to flow more of its own accord, into poeti¬ 
cal numbers, than rivers and mountains, meadows and hills, flocks 
and trees, and shepherds void of care. Hence, this species of poetry has, 
at all times, allured many readers, and excited many writers. But, 
notwithstanding the advantages it possesses, it will appear from what 
I have farther to observe upon it, that there is hardly any species of 
poetry which is more difficult to be carried to perfection, or in which 
fewer writers have excelled. 

Pastoral life may be considered in three different views: either 
such as it now actually is; when the state of shepherds is reduced 
to be a mean, servile, and laborious state ; when their employments 
are become disagreeable, and their ideas gross and low; or such as 
we may suppose it once to have been, in the more early and simple 
ages, when it was a life of ease and abundance, when the wealth of 
men consisted chiefly in flocks and herds, and the shepherd, though 
unrefined in his manners, was respectable in his state; or lastly, such 
as it never was, and never can in reality be, when, to the ease, inno¬ 
cence, and simplicity of the early ages, we attempt to add the po¬ 
lished taste and cultivated manners of modern times. Of these three 
states, the first, is too gross and mean, the last too refined and un¬ 
natural, to be made the ground-work of pastoral poetry. Either 
of these extremes is a rock upon which the poet will split, if he ap¬ 
proach too near it. We shall be disgusted if he gives us too much 
of the servile employments, and low ideas of actual peasants, as Theo¬ 
critus is censured for having sometimes done: and if, like some of 
the French and Italian writers of pastorals, he makes his shepherds 
discourse as if they were courtiers and scholars, he then retains the 
name only, but wants the spirit of pastoral poetry. 

He must, therefore, keep in the middle station between these. 
He must form to himself the idea of a rural state, such as in cer¬ 
tain periods of society may have actually taken place, where there 
was ease, equality, and innocence; where shepherds were gay and 
agreeable, without being learned or refined; and plain and artless 


LECT. XXXIX.] 


PASTORAL POETRY. 


4 35 


without being gross and wretched. The great charm of pastoral poe¬ 
try arises, from the view which it exhibits of the tranquillity and hap¬ 
piness of a rural life. This pleasing illusion, therefore, the poet 
must carefully maintain. He must display to us all that is agree¬ 
able in that state, but hide whatever is displeasing.* Let him 
paint its simplicity and innocence to the full; but cover its rude¬ 
ness and misery. Distresses, indeed, and anxieties he may attri¬ 
bute to it; for it would be perfectly unnatural to suppose any con¬ 
dition of human life to be without them; but they must be of such 
a nature, as not to shock the fancy with any thing peculiarly dis¬ 
gusting in the pastoral life. The shepherd may well be afflicted 
for the displeasure of his mistress, or for the loss of a favourite 
lamb. It is a sufficient recommendation of any state, to have only 
such evils as these to deplore. In short, it is the pastoral life some¬ 
what embellished and beautified, at least, seen on its fairest side 
only, that the poet ought to present to us. But let him take care 
that, in embellishing nature, he do not altogether disguise her; 
or pretend to join with rural simplicity and happiness, such im¬ 
provements as are unnatural and foreign to it. If it be not exactly 
real life which he presents to us, it must, however, be somewhat 
that resembles it. This, in my opinion, is the general idea of pas¬ 
toral poetry. But, in order to examine it more particularly, let 
us consider, first, the scenery; next, the characters; and, lastly, 
the subjects and actions, which this sort of composition should ex¬ 
hibit. 

As to the scene, it is clear, that it must always be laid in the 
country, and much of the poet’s merit depends on describing it 
beautifully. Virgil is, in this respect, excelled by Theocritus, whose 
descriptions of natural beauties are richer and more picturesque 


* In the following beautiful lines of the first Eclogue, Virgil has, in the true 
spirit of a pastoral poet, brought together as agreeable an assemblage of images of ru¬ 
ral pleasure as can any where be found : 

Fortunate senex ! hie inter flumina nota, 

Et fontes sacros, frigus captabis opacum. 

Hinc tibi, quae semper vicino ab limite sepes, 

Hyblaeis apibus, florem depasta salicti, 

Saepe levi somnutn suadebit inire susurro. 

Hinc altfi sub rupe, canet frondator ad auras; 

Nec tamen interea raucae, tua cura, palumbes, 

Nec gemere adrii cessabit turtur ab ulmo. 

Happy old man! here mid th* accustom’d streams 
And sacred springs, you’ll shun the scorching beams ; 

While from yon willow fence, thy pasture’s bound, 

The bees that suck their flowery stores around, 

Shall sweetly mingle, with the whisp’ring boughs, 

Their lulling murmurs, and invite repose. 

While from steep rocks the pruner’s song is heard ; 

Nor the soft cooing dove, thy fav’rite bird, 

Meanwhile shall cease to breathe her melting strain, 

Nor turtles from the aCrial elms to plain. 

3 R 


Warton, 



430 


PASTORAL POETRY. 


[lect. xxxix. 


than those of the other.* * In every pastoral, a scene, or rural 
prospect, should he distinctly drawn, and set before us. It is not 
enough, that we have those unmeaning groups of violets and roses, 
of birds, and brooks, and breezes, which our common pastoral- 
mongers throw together, and which are perpetually recurring upon 
us without variation. A good poet ought to give us such a land¬ 
scape, as a painter could copy after. His objects must he particu¬ 
larized; the stream, the rock, or the tree, must each ot them 
stand forth, so as to make a figure in the imagination, and to give 
us a pleasing conception of the place where we are. A single ob¬ 
ject happily introduced, will sometimes distinguish and charac¬ 
terize a whole scene; such as the antique rustic sepulchre, a very 
beautiful object in a landscape, which Virgil has set before us, and 
which he has taken from Theocritus. 

Hinc adeo media est nobis via ; jamque sepulchrum 

Incipit apparere Bianoris: hie ubi densas 

Agricolse stringunt frondes. Ecl. IX.f 


* What rural scenery, for instance, can be painted in more lively colours, than the 
following; description exhibits ? 

- tv n GctQiiat; 

'AcTgtotf cr%ivc /0 ^a/uiVVlertV «xXIv0»,m«C, 

*Ev t« ViorfxstTOicrt yiya&OTii oivaptoiat. 

Iloxxai S' afjtfxtv y7rg£0e nurti npu'ro; Sovsorra 
‘A'lyupoi VTiXiOLI T£‘ TO ef ’cyyddev itpov vSuq 
NV/U^iv {£ alVTg0/0 K&'Tilftot/.iVOV KiXctgvaSt. 

Tor tfg <nroTl CKitpetlc opoSctpAVtiTiv ot i&ctfriortitc 
Timyt; xnxctytvrrt'; iX 0V tt^vov. at S' oxowyuv 
T»x63-«v tv 7rvx.ivyri fidrcuv rpugtruev dxttv&iic. 

*A(tSov KopvSai Jtar atxatv6/(Tgf, to-'rtvt r^vydr’ 

TlcerairTo t’X&cLl <irs Si uriStnmc dptqt px'iXtffvai, 
llatyT’ ueStv •9’i^stc /mjXsi ct/ovo?, atrSiS a<tra<^nc, 

’’O^vatr /utv (ts-itg 'ts-cacr'i, Trxtv^vt St /uixet 
Aat^rXiti)? oLfAfjuv fx.vxiySi'TO' to i <f y tx-t^wr o 

*Op 7 r<tKH &p*£uXoi<rt xatTet/WflovTSf ipcttrSt. 

Theocrit. Idyl. vii. 132. 

.on soft beds recline 

Of lentisk, and young branches of the vine ; 

Poplars and elms above their foliage spread, 

Lent a cool shade, and wav’d the breezy head; 

Below, a stream, from the nymph's sacred cave, 

In free meanders led its murm’ring wave. 

In the warm sunbeams, verdant shades among, 

Shrill grasshoppers renew'd their plaintive song; 

At distance far, conceal’d in shades, alone, 

Sweet Philomela pour’d her tuneful moan; 

The lark, the goldfinch, warbled lays of love, 

And sweetly pensive coo’d the turtle dove ; 

While honey bees, forever on the wing, 

Humm’d round the flowers, or sipt the silver spring;, 

The rich, ripe season, gratified the sense 
With summer’s sweets, and autumn’s redolence. 

Apples and pears lay strew’d in heaps around, 

And the plum’s loaded branches kiss’d the ground. Fawkes. 

f — To our mid journey are we come, 

I see the top of old Bianor’s tomb; 

Here, Mseris, where the swains thick branches prune, 

And strew their leaves, our voices let us tune. Wartok 






LECT. XXXIX.] 


PASTORAL POETRY. 


437 


Not only in professed descriptions of the scenery, but in the frequent 
allusions to natural objects, which occur, of course, in pastorals, the 
poet must, above all things, study variety. He must diversify his 
face of nature, by presenting to us new images; or otherwise, he 
will soon become insipid with those known topics of description, 
which were original, it is true, in the first poets, who copied them 
from nature, but which are now worn thread-bare by incessant imi¬ 
tation. It is also incumbent on him, to suit the scenery to the sub¬ 
ject of the pastoral; and, according as it is of a gay or a melancholy 
kind, to exhibit nature under such forms as may correspond with 
the emotions or sentiments which he describes. Thus Virgil, in his 
second Eclogue, which contains the lamentation of a desparing lover, 
gives, with propriety, a gloomy appearance to the scene: 

Tantilm inter densas, umbrosa cacumina, fagos 

Assidu& veniebat; ibi hoec incondita solus 

Montibus fosylvis studio jactabat inani.* 

With regard to the characters, or persons, which are proper to be 
introduced into pastorals, it is not enough that they be persons resid¬ 
ing in the country. The adventures, or the discourses of courtiers, 
or citizens, in the country, are not what we look for in such writings; 
we expect to be entertained by shepherds, or persons wholly en¬ 
gaged in rural occupations; whose innocence and freedom from the 
cares of the world may, in our imagination, form an agreeable con¬ 
trast with the manners and characters of those who are engaged in 
the bustle of life. 

One of the principal difficulties which here occurs has been al¬ 
ready hinted ; that of keeping the exact medium between too much 
rusticity on the one hand, and too much refinement on the other. 
The shepherd, assuredly, must be plain and unaffected in his manner 
of thinking, on all subjects. An amiable simplicity must be the 
ground-work of his character. At the same time, there is no ne¬ 
cessity for his being dull and insipid. He may have good sense and 
reflection; he may have sprightliness and vivacity; he may have 
very tender and delicate feelings; since these are, more or less, the 
portion of men in all ranks of life; and since, undoubtedly, there 
was much genius in the world, before there were learning or arts to 
refine it. But then he must not subtilize; he must not deal in ge¬ 
neral reflections and abstract reasoning; and still less in the points 
and conceits of an affected gallantry, which surely belong not to 
his character and situation. Some of these conceits are the chief 
blemishes of the Italian pastorals, which are otherwise beautiful. 
When Aminta, in Tasso, is disentangling his mistress’s hair from the 
tree to which a savage had bound it, he is represented as saying: 

6 Cruel tree! how couldst thou injure that lovely hair which did thee 
so much honour? Thy rugged trunk was not worthy of such lovely 


* Mid shades of thickest beech he pin’d alone, 

To the wild woods and mountains made his moan ; 
Still day by day, in incoherent strains, 

Twas all he could, despairing told his pains. 


Wartof, 



438 


PASTORAL POETRY. 


[lect. XXXIX. 


knots. What advantage have the servants of love, if those precious 
chains are common to them, and to the trees V* Such strained senti¬ 
ments as these, ill befit the woods. Rural personages are supposed 
to speak the language of plain sense, and natural feelings. When they 
describe, or relate, they do it with simplicity, and naturally allude 
to rural circumstances; as in those beautiful lines of one of Virgil’s 
Eclogues: 

Sepibus in nostris parvam te roscida mala 
(Dux ego vester eram) vidi cum matre legentem : 

Alter ab undecimo turn me jam ceperat annus, 

Jam fragiles poteram k terr& contingere ramos. 

Ut vidi, utperii, ut me malus abstulit error !f VIII. 37. 

In another passage, he makes a shepherdess throw an apple at 
her lover: 

Turn fugit ad salices, et se cupit ante videri.J III. 65. 

This is naive , as the French express it, and perfectly suited to pas¬ 
toral manners. Mr. Pope wanted to imitate this passage, and, as he 
thought, to improve upon it. He does it thus: 

The sprightly Sylvia trips along the green, 

She runs ; but hopes she does not run unseen ; 

While a kind glance at her pursuer flies, 

How much at variance are her feet and eyes ! 

This falls far short of Virgil; the natural and pleasing simplicity 
6f the description is destroyed, by the quaint and affected turn 
in the last line: u How much at variance are her feet and eyes.” 

Supposing the poet to have formed correct ideas concerning 
his pastoral characters and personages: the next inquiry is, about 
what is he to employ them? and what are to be the subjects of 
his Eclogues? For it is not enough, that he gives us shepherds 
discoursing together. Every good poem, of every kind, ought to 
have a subject which should, in some way, interest us. Now, here 
I apprehend, lies the chief difficulty of pastoral writing. The ac¬ 
tive scenes of country life either are, or to most describers appear 
to be, too barren of incidents. The state of a shepherd, or a per¬ 
son occupied in rural employments only, is exposed to few of those 


* Gia di nodi si bei non era degno 
Cosi rovido tronco ; or che vantaggio 
Hanno i servi d’ amor, se lor commune 
E’con le piante il pretioso laccio ? 

Pianta crudel! potesti quel bel crine 

Offender, tu, ch’ate seo tanto onore ? Atto III. Sc. I. 

f Once with your mother to our field you came 
For dewy apples; thence I date my flame; 

The choicest fruit I pointed to your view, 

Tho’ young, my raptur’d soul was fix’d on you; 

The boughs I just could reach with little arms ; 

But then, even then, could feel thy powerful charms. 

0, how I gaz’d, in pleasing transport tost: [ 

How glow’d my heart, in sweet delusion lost! Warton. 

X My Phyllis me with pelted apples plies ; 

Then, tripping to the wood, the wanton hies. 

And wishes to be seen, before she flies Dryden. 



EECT. XXXIX.] 


PASTORAL POETRY. 


439 


accidents and revolutions which render his situation interesting, or 
produce curiosity or surprise. The tenour of his life is uniform. 
His ambition is conceived to be without policy, and his love with¬ 
out intrigue. Hence it is, that, of all poems, the most meagre com¬ 
monly in the subject, and the least diversified in the strain, is the 
pastoral. 

From the first lines, we can, generally, guess at all that is to fol¬ 
low. It is either a shepherd who sits down solitary by a brook, to 
lament the absence or cruelty of his mistress, and to tell us how the 
trees wither, and the flowers droop, now that she is gone; or we 
have two shepherds who challenge one another to sing, rehearsing 
alternate verses, which have little either of meaning or subject, till 
the judge rewards one with a studded crook, and another with a 
beechen bowl. To the frequent repetition of common-place topics 
of this sort, which have been thrummed over by all Eclogue writers 
since the days of Theocritus and Virgil, is owing much of that insi¬ 
pidity which prevails in pastoral compositions. 

I much question, however, whether this insipidity be not owing 
to the fault of the poets, and to their barren and slavish imitation 
of the ancient pastoral topics, rather than to the confined nature 
of the subject. For why may not pastoral poetry take a wider 
range? Human nature, and human passions, are much the same 
in every rank of life; and wherever these passions operate on ob¬ 
jects that are within the rural sphere, there may be a proper subject, 
for pastoral. One would indeed choose to remove from this sort; 
of composition the operations of violent and direful passions, and 
to present such only as are consistent with innocence, simplicity, 
and virtue. But under this limitation, there will still be abundant 
scope for a careful observer of nature to exert his genius. The various 
adventures which give occasion to those engaged in country life to 
display their disposition and temper; the scenes of domestic felici¬ 
ty or disquiet; the attachment of friends and brothers; the rival- 
ship and competition of lovers; the unexpected success or mis¬ 
fortunes of families, might give occasion to many a pleasing and 
tender incident; and were more of the narrative and sentimental 
intermixed with the descriptive in this kind of poetry, it would be¬ 
come much more interesting than it now generally is, to the bulk 
of readers.* 

The two great fathers of pastoral poetry are, Theocritus and Vir¬ 
gil. Theocritus was a Sicilian; and as he has laid the scene of his 
Eclogues in his own country, Sicily became ever afterwards a sort of 
consecrated ground for pastoral poetry. His Idylia, as he has enti¬ 
tled them, are not all of equal merit; nor indeed are they all pas¬ 
torals ; but some of them poems of a quite different nature. In 
such, however, as are properly pastorals, there are many and great 

* The above observations on the barrenness of the common Eclogues were written 
before any translation from the German had made us acquainted in this country with 
Gesner’s Idyls, in which the ideas that had occurred to me for the improvement of pas 
toral poetry, ate fully realized 



440 


PASTORAL POETRY. 


[lect. XXXIX. 


beauties. He is distinguished for the simplicity of his sentiments 
for the great sweetness and harmony of his numbers, and for the 
richness of his scenery and description. He is the original, of 
which Virgil is the imitator. For most of Virgil’s highest beauties 
in his Eclogues are copied from Theocritus; in many places he 
has done nothing more than translate him. He must be allowed, 
however, to have imitated him with great judgment, and in some 
respects to have improved upon him. For 1 heocritus, it cannot 
be denied, descends sometimes into ideas that are gross and mean, 
and makes his shepherds abusive and immodest; whereas Virgil is 
free from offensive rusticity, and at the same time preserves the 
character of pastoral simplicity. The same distinction obtains be¬ 
tween Theocritus and Virgil, as between many other of the Greek 
and Roman w r riters. The Greek led the way, followed nature 
more closely, and showed more original genius. The Roman dis¬ 
covered more of the polish and correctness of art. V e have a few 
remains of two other Greek poets in the pastoral style, Moschus and 
Bion, which have very considerable merit; and if they want the 
simplicity of Theocritus, excel him in tenderness and delicacy. 

The modern writers of pastorals have, generally, contented them¬ 
selves with copying, or imitating,the descriptions and sentiments of 
the ancient poets. Sannazarius, indeed, a famous Latin poet, in the 
age of Leo X. attempted a bold innovation. He composed Pis¬ 
catory Eclogues, changing the scene from woods to the sea, and 
from the life of shepherds to that of fishermen. But the innovation 
was so unhappy, that he has gained no followers. For the life of fish¬ 
ermen is, obviously, much more hard and toilsome than that of 
shepherds, and presents to the fancy much less agreeable images. 
Flocks, and trees, and flowers, are objects of greater beauty, and 
more generally relished by men, than fishes and marine productions. 
Of all the moderns, M. Gesner, a poet of Switzerland, has been 
the most successful in his pastoral compositions. He has introduced 
into his Idyls (as he entitles them) many new ideas. His rural 
scenery is often striking, and his descriptions are lively. He pre¬ 
sents pastoral life to us, w 7 ith all the embellishments of which it is 
susceptible; but without any excess of refinement. What forms 
the chief merit of this poet is, that he whites to the heart; and has 
enriched the subject of his Idyls with incidents w hich give rise to 
much tender sentiment. Scenes of domestic felicity are beautifully 
painted. The mutual affection of husbands and wives, of parents and 
children, of brothers and sisters, as well as of lovers, are displayed 
in a pleasing and touching manner. From not understanding the 
language in which M. Gesner writes, I can be no judge of the po¬ 
etry of his style: but, in the subject and conduct of his pastorals, 
he appears to me to have outdone all the moderns. 

Neither Mr. Pope’s nor Mr. Philips’s pastorals, do any great hon¬ 
our to the English poetry. Mr. Pope’s were composed in his youth; 
which may be an apology for other faults, but cannot well excuse 
the barrenness that appears in them. They are written in re¬ 
markably smooth and flowing numbers: and this is their chief 


3-ECT. XXXIX.] 


PASTORAL POETRY. 


441 


merit; for there is scarcely any thought in them which can be called 
his own; scarcely any description, or any image of nature, which 
has the marks of being original, or copied from nature herself; but 
a repetition of the common images that are to be found in Virgil, 
and in all poets who write of rural themes. Philips attempted to 
he more simple and natural than Pope; but he wanted genius to 
support his attempt, or to write agreeably. He, too, runs on the 
common and beaten topics; and endeavouring to be simple, he be¬ 
comes flat and insipid. There was no small competition between 
these two authors, at the time when their pastorals where pub¬ 
lished. In some papers of the Guardian , great partiality was shown 
to Philips and high praise bestowed upon him. Mr. Pope, resenting 
this preference, under a feigned name, procured a paper to be in¬ 
serted in the Guardian , wherein he seemingly carries on the plan 
of extolling Philips ; but in reality satirises him most severely with 
ironical praises; and in an artful covered manner, gives the palm 
to himself.* About the same time, Mr. Gay published his Shep¬ 
herd’s Week, in six pastorals, which are designed to ridicule that sort 
of simplicity which Philips and his partisans extolled, andare,indeed, 
an ingenious burlesque of pastoral writing, when it rises no higher 
than the manners of modern clowns and rustics. Mr. Shenstone’s 
pastoral ballad, in four parts, may justly be reckoned, I think, one of 
the most elegant poems of this kind which we have in English. 

I have not yet mentioned one form in which pastoral writing has 
appeared in latter ages, that is, when extended into a play, or regu¬ 
lar drama, where plot, characters, and passions, are joined with 
the simplicity and innocence of rural manners. This is the chief 
improvement which the moderns have made on this species of 
composition ; and of this nature, we have two Italian pieces which 
are much celebrated, Guarini’s Pastor Fido, and Tasso’s Aminta. 
Both of these possess great beauties and are entitled to the reputa¬ 
tion they have gained. To the latter, the preference seems due, as 
being less intricate in the plot and conduct, and less strained and affec¬ 
ted in the sentiments; and though not wholly free from Italian refine¬ 
ment, (of which I already gave one instance, the worst indeed, that 
occurs in all the poem,) it is, on the whole, a performance of high 
merit. The strain of the poetry is gentle and pleasing; and the 
Italian language contributes to add much of that softness, which is 
peculiarly suited to pastoral.t 

* See Guardian, No. 40. 

t It may be proper to take notice here, that the charge against Tasso for his 
points and conceits, has sometimes been carried too far. Mr. Addison, for in¬ 
stance, in a paper of the Guardian, censuring his Aminta, gives this example; 

1 That Sylvia enters adorned with a garland of flowers, and after viewing herself 
in a fountain, breaks out in a speech to the flowers on her head, and tells them that 
she did not wear them to adorn herself, but to make them ashamed.’ ‘ Whoever 
can bear this,’he adds,‘may be assured, that he has no taste for pastoral.’ Guard. 
No. 38. But Tasso’s Sylvia, in truth, makes no such ridiculous figure, and we 
are obliged to suspect that Mr. Addison had not read the Aminta. Daphne, a 
companion of Sylvia, appears in conversation with Thyrsis, the confidant of Amin¬ 
ta Sylvia’s lover, and in order to show him that Sylvia was not so simple, or in- 

56 



442 PASTORAL POETRY. [lect. xxxix. 

1 must not omit the mention of another pastoral drama, which 
will hear being brought into comparison with any composition of 
this kind,in any language; that is, Allan Ramsay’s Gentle Shepherd. 
It is a great disadvantage to this beautiful poem, that it is written in 
the old rustic dialect of Scotland, which, in a short time, will pro¬ 
bably be entirely obsolete, and not intelligible; and it is a farther dis¬ 
advantage, that it is so entirely formed on the rural manners of Scot¬ 
land, that none but a native of that country can thoroughly under- 

sensible to her own charms, as she affected to be, gives him this instance; that 
she had caught her one day adjusting her dress by a fountain, and applying now 
one flower and now another to her neck, and after comparing their colours with 
her own, she broke into a smile, as if she had seemed to say, I will wear you not 
lor my ornaments, but to show how much you yield to me ; and when caught thus 
admiring herself, she threw away her flowers, and blushed for shame. This de¬ 
scription of the vanity of a rural coquette, is no more than what is natural, and very dif¬ 
fluent from what the author of the Guardian represents it. 

This censure on Tasso was not originally Mr, Addison’s. Bouhours in liis Me¬ 
niere de bien penser dans les outrages d'esprit, appears to have been the first who <-ave 
Uus misrepresentation of Sylvia’s speech, and founded a criticism on it Fonte- 
neJle, in his discourse on Pastoral Poetry, followed him in this criticism Mr Ad¬ 
dison, or whoever was the author of that paper in the Guardian, copied from them 
both. Mr. War ton, in the Prefatory Discourse to his Translation of Virgil's 
Eclogues, repeats the observation. Sylvia’s speech to the flowers, with which 
she was adorned, is always quoted as the flagrant instance of the false taste of the 
Italian poets. Whereas, lasso gives us no such speech of Sylvia’s, but only in- 
foims us of what her companion supposed her to be thinking, or saying to herself 
when she was privately admiring her own beauty. After charging so many emi¬ 
nent critics, for having fallen into this strange inaccuracy, from copying one anoth¬ 
er. without looking into the author whom they censure, it is necessary for me to 

Thyrsis ‘ PaSSagG Which haS occasioned this remark. Daphne speaks thus to 

Hora per dirti il ver, non mi resolvo 
Si Silvia e semplicetta, come pare > 

A le parole, a gli atti. Hiervidi un segno 
Che me ne mette in dubbio. Io la trovai 
La presso la cittade in quei gran prati, 

Ove fra stagni grace un isoletta, 

Sovra essa un lago limpido e tranquillo, 

Tutta pendente in atto, che parea 
Vagheggiar fe medesma, e’nsieme insieme 
Chieder consiglio k l’acque, in qual maniera 
. Dispor dovesse in su la fronte i crini, 

E sovra i crini il velo, e sovral velo 
1 fior, che tenea in grembo ; e spesso spesso 
Hor prendeva un ligustro, hor una rosa, 

E l’accostava al be! candido collo, 

A le guancie vermiglie, e de colori 
Fea paragone ; e poi, ficome lieta 
De la vittoria, lampeggiava un riso 
Che parea che dicesse : io pur vi vinco; 

Ni porto voi per ornamento mio, 

Ma porto voi sol per vergogna vostra, 

Perche si veggia quanto mi cedete. 

Ma mentre ella s’ornava, e vagheggiava 
Rivolsi gli occhi a caso, e si fu accorta, 

TJh’io di la m’era accorta, e vergognando, 

Rizzosi tosto, e i fior lascio cadere; 

Jn tanto io piu ridea del suo rossore, 

Ella piu s'arrossia del riso mio. 


Aminta. Atto II. Sc. ii. 



1.ECT. XXXIX.] 


LYRIC POETRY. 


443 


stand or relish it. But, though subject to those local disadvantages, 
which confine its reputation within narrow limits, it is full of so much 
natural description, and tender sentiment, as would do honour to 
any poet. The characters are well drawn, the incidents affecting, 
the scenery and manners lively and just. It affords a strong proof, 
both of the power which nature and simplicity possess, to reach the 
heart in every sort of writing; and of the variety of pleasing charac¬ 
ters and subjects, with which pastoral poetry, when properly mana¬ 
ged, is capable of being enlivened 

I proceed next, to treat of lyric poetry, or the ode; a species of 
poetical composition which possesses much dignity, and in which 
many writers have distinguished themselves, in every age. Its pe¬ 
culiar character is, that it is intended to be sung, or accompanied 
with music. Its designation implies this. Ode is, in Greek, the 
same with song or hymn; and lyric poetry imports, that the verses 
are accompanied with a lyre, or musical instrument. This distinc¬ 
tion was not, at first, peculiar to anyone species of poetry. For, as 
I observed in the last lecture, music and poetry were coeval, and 
were, originally, always joined together. But after their separation 
took place, after bards had begun to make verse compositions, which 
were to be recited or read, not to be sung, such poems as were de¬ 
signed to be still joined with music or song, were, by way of distinc¬ 
tion, called odes. 

In the ode, therefore, poetry retains its first and most ancient form; 
that form, under which the original bards poured forth their enthusi¬ 
astic strains, praised their gods and their heroes, celebrated their vic¬ 
tories, and lamented their misfortunes. It is from this circumstance, 
of the ode’s being supposed to retain its original union with music, 
that we are to deduce the proper idea, and the peculiar qualities of 
this kind of poetry. It is not distinguished from other kinds, by the 
subjects on which it is employed ; for these may be extremely vari¬ 
ous. I know no distinction of subject that belongs to it, except that 
other poems are often employed in the recital of actions, whereas 
sentiments of one kind or other, form, almost always, the subject of 
the ode. But it is chiefly the spirit, the manner of its execution, 
that marks and characterizes it. Music and song naturally add to 
the warmth of poetry. They tend to transport, in a higher degree, 
both the person who sings, and the persons who hear. They justify, 
therefore, a bolder and more passionate strain, than can be support¬ 
ed in simple recitation. On this is formed the peculiar character of 
the ode. Hence, the enthusiasm that belongs to it, and the liber¬ 
ties it is allowed to take, beyond any other species of poetry. Hence, 
that neglect of regularity, those digressions, and that disorder which 
it is supposed to admit; and which, indeed, most lyric poets have 
not failed sufficiently to exemplify in their practice. 

The effects of music upon the mind are chiefly two ; to raise it 
above its ordinary state, and fill it with high enthusiastic emotions ; 
or to sooth, and melt it into the gentle pleasurable feelings. Hence, 
the ode may either aspire to the former character of the sublime 
and noble, or it may descend to the latter of the pleasant and the 


444 


LYRIC POETRY. 


[lect. XXXIX. 


gay; and between these, there is, also, a middle region of the mild 
and temperate emotions, which the ode may often occupy to advan¬ 
tage. 

All odes may be comprised under four denominations. First, sa¬ 
cred odes; hymns addressed to God, or composed on religious sub¬ 
jects. Of this nature are the Psalms of David, which exhibit to us 
this species of lyric poetry, in its highest degree of perfection. 
Secondly, heroic odes, which are employed in the praise of heroes, 
and in the celebration of martial exploits and great actions. Of 
this kind are all Pindar’s odes, and some few of Horace’s. These 
two kinds ought to have sublimity and elevation, for their reigning 
character. 

Thirdly, moral and philosophical odes, where the sentiments are 
chiefly inspired by virtue, friendship,and humanity. Of this kind, 
are many of Horace’s odes, and several of our best modern lyric pro¬ 
ductions; and here the ode possesses that middle region, which, as 
I observed, it sometimes occupies. Fourthly, festive and amorous 
odes, calculated merely for pleasure and amusement. Of this na¬ 
ture are all Anacreon’s, some of Horace’s; and a great number of 
songs and modern productions, that claim to be of the lyric species. 
The reigning character of these, ought to be elegance, smoothness, 
and gayety. 

One of the chief difficulties in composing odes, arises from that 
enthusiasm which is understood to be a characteristic of lyric po¬ 
etry. A professed ode, even of the moral kind, but more especially, 
if it attempt the sublime, is expected to be enlivened and animated 
in an uncommon degree. F ull of this idea, the poet, when he begins 
to write an ode, if he has any real warmth of genius; is apt to deliver 
himself up to it, without control or restraint; if he has it not, he 
strains after it, and thinks himself bound to assume the appearance 
of being all fervour, and all flame. In either case, he is in great haz¬ 
ard of becoming extravagant. The licentiousness of writing without 
order, method, or connexion, has infected the ode more than any 
other species of poetry. Hence, in the class of heroic odes, we find 
so few that one can read with pleasure. The poet is out of sight in 
a moment. He gets up into the clouds; becomes so abrupt in his 
transitions; so eccentric and irregular in his motions, and of course 
so obscure, that we essay in vain to follow him, or to partake of his 
raptures. I do not require, that an ode should be as regular in the 
structure of its parts, as a didactic or an epic poem. But still in every 
composition, there ought to be a subject; there ought to be parts 
which make up a whole ; there should be a connexion of those parts 
with one another. The transitions from thought to thought mav be 
light and delicate, such as are prompted by a lively fancy ; but still 
they should be such as preserve the connexion of ideas, and show 
the author to be one w ho thinks, and not one who raves. Whatever au¬ 
thority may be pleaded for the incoherence and disorder of lyric 
poetry, nothing can be more certain, than that any composition which 


LECT.XXXIX.] 


LYRIC POETRY. 


445 


is so regular in its method, as to become obscure to the bulk of read¬ 
ers, is so much worse upon that sfccount.* 

1 be extravagant liberty which several of the modern lyric writers 
assume to themselves in the versification, increases the disorder of 
this species ot poetry. They prolong their periods to such a degree, 
they wander through so many different measures and employ such 
a variety ot long and short lines, corresponding in rhyme at so great 
a distance irom each other, that all sense of melody is utterly lost. 

, Whereas, lyric composition ought, beyond every other species of 
poetry, to pay attention to melody and beauty of sound; and the 
versification of those odes may be justly accounted the best, which 
renders the harmony of the measure most sensible to every common 
ear. 

Pindar, the great father of lyric poetry, has been the occasion of 
leading his imitators into some of the defects I have now mentioned. 
IIis genius was sublime; his expressions are beautiful and happy; 
his descriptions picturesque. But finding it a very barren subject 
to sing the praises of those who had gained the prize in the public 
games, he is perpetually digressive, and fills up his poems with fables 
of the gods and heroes, that have little connexion either with his 
subject, or with one another. The ancients admired him greatly ; 
but as many of the histories of particular families and cities, to which 
he alludes, are now unknown to us, he is so obscure, partly from his 
subjects, and partly from his rapid, abrupt manner of treating them, 
that, notwithstanding the beauty of his expression, our pleasure in 
reading him is much diminished. One wmuld imagine, that many 
of his modern imitators thought the best way to catch his spirit, was 
to imitate his disorder and obscurity. In several of the choruses of 
Euripides and Sophocles, we have the same kind of lyric poetry as 
in Pindar, carried on with more clearness and connexion, and at the 
same time with much sublimity. 

Of all the writers of odes, ancient or modern, there is none, 
that in point of correctness, harmony, and happy expression, can 
vie with Horace. He has descended from the Pindaric rapture to 


* “ La plupart de ceux qui parlent de l’enthousiasme de l’ode, en parlent comme 
s’ils etoient eux-memes dans le trouble qu’ils veulent definir. Ce ne sont que 
grands mots de fureur divine, de transports de Fame, de mouverm ns, de lumieres, 
qui, mis bout-ci-bout dans des phrases pomneuses, ne produisent pourtant aucune 
idee distincte. Si on les en croit, 1’essence de l’enthousiasme est de ne pouvoir 
etre coinpris que par les espi its du premiere ordre, a la tfite desquels ils se suppo- 
sent, et dont ils excluent tons ceux que osent ne les pas entendre.—Le beau desor- 
dre de l’ode est un cfTet de l’art; mais il faut prendre garde de donner trop d’eten- 
due a ce terme On autoriseroit par-lk tous les hearts imagiuables Un poete 
n’auroit plus qu’k exprimer avec force toutes les pensees qui lui viendroient suc- 
cessivement ; il se tiendroit dispense d’en examiner le rapport, et de se faire un 
plan, dont toutes les parties se pretassent mutuellement des beautes. Il n’y auroit 
ni commencement, ni milieu, ni fin, dans son ouvrage ; et cependant l’auteur se 
croiroit d’autant plus sublime, qu’ il seroit moins raisonnable. JVlais qui produiroit 
une pareille composition dans l’esprit du lecteur ? Elle ne laisseroit qu’un 6tour- 
dissement, cause par la magnificence et l’harmonie des paroles, sans y faire naitre 
que des id6es confuses, qui ehasseroient l’une on l'autre, an lieu de concourir en¬ 
semble ci fixer et a eclairer l’esprit.” (Euvkf.s of. M. Df. la Motte, tom. I. T)is* 
cours sur l’Ode. 




446 


LYRIC POETRY. 


[lect. XXXIX. 


a more moderate degree of elevation ; and joins connected thought, 
and good sense, with the highest beauties of poetry. He does not 
often aspire beyond that middle region, which I mentioned as be¬ 
longing to the ode; and those odes, in which he attempts the sub¬ 
lime, are perhaps not always his best.* The peculiar character, in 
which he excels, is grace and elegance; and in this style of compo¬ 
sition, no poet has ever attained to a greater perfection than Horace. 
No poet supports a moral sentiment with more dignity, touches a 
gay one more happily, or possesses the art of trifling more agree¬ 
ably, when he chooses to trifle. His language is so fortunate, that 
with a single word or epithet, he often conveys a whole description 
to the fancy. Hence he ever has been, and ever will continue to 
be, a favourite author with all persons of taste. 

Among the Latin poets of later ages, there have been many imi¬ 
tators of Horace. One of the most distinguished is Casimir, a 
Polish poet of the last century, who wrote four books of odes. In 
graceful ease of expression, he is far inferior to the Roman. He 
oftener affects the sublime ; and in the attempt, like other lyric wri¬ 
ters, frequently becomes harsh and unnatural. But, on several oc¬ 
casions, he discovers a considerable degree of original genius, and 
poetical fire. Buchanan, in some of his lyric compositions, is very 
elegant and classical. 

Among the French, the odes of Jean Baptiste Rousseau, have 
been much, and justly celebrated. They possess great beauty, both 
of sentiment and expression. They are animated, without being 
rhapsodical; and are not inferior to any poetical productions in the 
French language. 

In our own language, we have several lyric compositions of con¬ 
siderable merit. Dryden’s ode on St. Cecilia, is well known. Mr. 
Gray is distinguished in some of his odes, both for tenderness and 
sublimity; and in Dodsley’s Miscellanies,several very beautiful lyric 
poems are to be found. As to professed Pindaric odes, they are, 
with a few exceptions, so incoherent, as seldom to be intelligible. 
Cowley, at all times harsh, is doubly so in his Pindaric compositions. 
In his Anacreontic odes, he is much happier. They are smooth 
and elegant; and indeed the most agreeable and the most perfect in 
their kind, of all Mr. Cowley’s Poems. 


* There is no ode whatever of Horace’s, without great beauties. But though I 
may be singular in my opinion, I cannot help thinking that in some of those odes 
which have been much admired for sublimity, (such as Ode iv. lib. 4. ‘ Qualem mi- 

nistrum fulminis alitem,’ &lc.) there appears somewhat of a strained and forced ef¬ 
fort to be lofty. The genius of this amiable poet shows itself, according to my 
judgment, to greater advantage, in themes of a more temperate kind. 



( 44t> a ) 


UUKSTIOXS. 


In the last lecture, of what was an 
account given; and on what were some 
observations made ? To what, does our 
author now proceed? What order is 
followed? What is the subject of this 
lecture? With what does our author 
begin; and of the time of which it was 
first cultivated, what is observed ? What 
fancy have most authors indulged ? Of 
what does our author make no doubt; 
but of what is he persuaded ? By 
what, in the first periods of every na¬ 
tion, was it inspired ? W T hat furnished 
the first themes to the bards of every 
country ? Why was what was of a 
pastoral kind, in their compositions, inci¬ 
dental only ? When did pastoral poetry 
assume its present form? How came 
men to conceive the idea of celebrating 
pastoral life in poetry? Where did 
Theocritus, and where did Virgil, write 
their pastorals? Why is pastoral poetry, 
a natural and very agreeable form of 
poetical composition ? From what does 
it appear that pastoral life is very fa¬ 
vourable to poetry ? Hence, what has 
been the effect of this species of poetry ? 
But, notwithstanding the advantages 
it possesses, what follows? In what 
three different views may pastoral life 
be considered ? Of the first and last of 
these three states, what is observed ? 
Where must the poet therefore keep ? 
What must he form to himself? For 
what does the great charm of pastoral 
poetry arise? What must the poet 
therefore do ? What must he display to 
us; and what hide ? Repeat the fol¬ 
lowing passage from Virgil. How 
should he paint it? Why may distresses 
and anxieties be attributed to it; but 
of what nature must they be? For 
what may the shepherd well be afflict¬ 
ed ; and why ? In short, in what man¬ 
ner only should the pastoral life be pre¬ 
sented to us? But about what should 
he take care ? If it be not real life that 
is presented to us, what must it be ? 
That we may examine this general 
idea of pastoral poetry more particular¬ 
ly, what order shall we pursue? As 
to the scene, what is clear, and on what 
does much of the poet’s merit depend ? 
Of Theocritus’s descriptions of natural 
beauties, what is observed ? Repeat the 
passage illustrative of this remark? In 
every pastoral, what should be distinct¬ 
ly drawn, and set before us ? What is 


not sufficient? What ought a good poet 
to give us? How is this remark illus¬ 
trated ? W T hat will sometimes charac¬ 
terize a whole scene ? W hat illustration 
is given? In what, above all things, 
must the poet study variety? How 
must he diversify his face of nature, or, 
otherwise, what will be the conse¬ 
quence? W T hat is also incumbent on 
him ? Repeat the illustration of this re¬ 
mark from Virgil? W'ith regard to the 
characters, or persons, which are proper 
to be introduced into pastorals, what is 
not sufficient ? How is this observation 
illustrated ? W hat is one of the princi¬ 
pal difficulties which here occurs? Of 
the shepherd, what is observed ? What 
qualities may he possess? But then, 
what must he not do? Of what pasto¬ 
rals are some of these conceits the chief 
blemishes ? What illustration of this re¬ 
mark is given from Tasso ? What lan¬ 
guage are rural personages supposed 
to speak ? When they describe or re¬ 
late, how do they do it ? What illustra¬ 
tion of this remark is given ? In ano¬ 
ther passage, what does he do; and in 
what language ? What did Mr. Pope 
wish to do; and how does he do it ? Of 
what does this fall short; and how is 
the natural and pleasing simplicity of 
the description destroyed? Supposing 
the poet to have formed correct ideas 
concerning his characters and persona¬ 
ges, what is the next inquiry; and 
why ? What ought every good poem, 
of every kind, to have? In what lies the 
chief difficulty of pastoral writing? 
Hence, what follows? From the first 
lines, at what can we guess ? How is 
this remark fully illustrated ? To what 
is much of that insipidity owing, which 
prevails in pastoral writing? What, 
however, is much to be questioned ; and 
what remark follows? What would 
one choose to remove from this sort of 
composition? But under this limitation, 
for what will there still be abundant 
scope ? How is this remark illustrated? 

Who are the two great fathers of pas¬ 
toral poetry ? Who was Theocritus, and 
what remark follows? Of his Idylia. 
what is observed? For what is he dis¬ 
tinguished? From what does it appear 
that he is the original of which Virgil 
is the imitator ? What, however, must, 
he be allowed to have (lone; and why? 
What distinction obtains between them 7 



44b b 


QUESTIONS. 


[LECT. XXXIX' 


How is this remark illustrated? Of 
what other Greek writers of pastorals 
have we remains, and what is said of 
them? With what have the modern 
writers of pastorals, generally, content¬ 
ed themselves? Who, however, at¬ 
tempted a bold innovation; and what 
was it ? Why has not this innovation 
gained followers; and what follows? 
Of all the moderns, who has been the 
most successful in pastoral composi¬ 
tions? What peculiar excellencies do 
they possess ? Of Mr. Pope’s and Mr. 
Philips’s pastorals, what is observed ? 
What may be an apology for Mr. 
Pope’s faults? What is their chief 
merits; and why? What did Philips 
attempt, and how did he succeed ? Of 
these two writers, what is further re¬ 
marked? About the same time, what did 
Mr. Gay publish; and what was their 
design ? What is said of them ? Of Mr. 
Shenstone’s pastoral ballad, what is 
observed? What has not yet been 
mentioned ? Of this improvement, what 
is remarked ? Of this nature, what two 
Italian pieces have we, and what is 
said of them ? Of the latter, what is 
observed? What other pastoral drama 
does our author mention ? What are 
great disadvantages to this beautiful 
poem? But, though subject to those 
local disadvantages, yet, of it, what re¬ 
mark follows ? What is observed of the 
characters ; and of what does it afford 
a strong proof? To what does our au¬ 
thor next proceed ; and what is obser¬ 
ved of it ? What is its peculiar charac¬ 
ter ? By what is this implied; and how 
is it illustrated ? From what does it ap¬ 
pear that this distinction was not, at 
first, peculiar to any kind of poetry ? 
When were such poems as were de¬ 
signed to be sung, called odes ? In the 
ode, therefore, what form does poetry 
retain ? From this circumstance, what 
are we to deduce ? By what is it not 
distinguished from other kinds of poetry; 
and why ? What is the only distinc¬ 
tion which belongs to it ? What chiefly 
characterizes it ? What effect do music 
and song have on poetry ? As on this is 
formed the peculiar character of the 
ode, what follows ? What two effects 
has music on the mind? Hence, the ode 
may either aspire to what, or to what 
may it descend ? And between these, 
what is found ? Under what four deno¬ 
minations, may all odes be comprised ? 
What are examples of each? What 


should be the reigning character of the 
first two kinds ? What should reign in 
the latter ? From what does one of the 
chief difficulties in composing the ode 
arise ? Of a professed ode, what is ex¬ 
pected? Full of this idea, what does 
the poet do ? In either case, of what is 
he in great hazard ? How is this illus¬ 
trated ? W hat is not required; but still, 
in every composition, what ought there 
to be ? Of transitions from thought to 
thought, what is observed ? Whatever 
authority may be pleaded for the inco¬ 
herence of lyric poetry, what is certain? 
What increases the disorder of this spe¬ 
cies of poetry ? What do they do ? 
Whereas, of lyric composition, what 
remark follows ? Of what has Pindar 
been the occasion ? Of his genius, his 
expressions, and his descriptions, what 
is observed ? But finding it a very bar¬ 
ren subject to sing the praises of those 
who had gained the prize in the public 
games, what did he do? Why is our 
pleasure in reading him much diminish¬ 
ed ? What would one imagine ? Where 
have we the same kind of lyric poetry 
as in Pindar ? Of Horace, as a writer of 
odes, what is observed ? From what has 
he descended? Beyond what does he 
not often aspire ? What is the peculiar 
character in which he excels; and what 
remark follows? Of him, what is farther 
remarked ? Among the Latin poets of 
later ages, as imitators of Horace, who 
is the most distinguished? Wliat are 
the characteristics of his odes ? What 
is said of Buchanan? Among the 
French, whose odes are justly celebra¬ 
ted ? What is their character ? In our 
own language, whose odes are the most 
distinguished; and of them, what is 
observed ? 


ANALYSIS, 

1. Pastoral Poetry. 

a. Its origin and nature. 

b. Different views of pastoral life. 

a. The middle station to be observed. 

c. The scene. 

d. The characters. 

a. Their employments. 

E. The fathers of pastoral poetry. 

a. Their respective characteristics. 
f. Modern pastoral writers. 
a. Their relative merits. 

2. Lyric Poetry. 

a. The definition and nature of the ode. 

a. Different kinds of odes. 

b. Enthusiasm its chief characteristic. 

c. Pindar—Horace. 

d. French and English writers of odes. 





( 447 ) 


LECTURE XL. 


DIDACTIC POETRY.DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 

Having treated of pastoral and lyric poetry, I proceed next to 
didactic poetry: under which is included a numerous class of wri¬ 
tings. The ultimate end of all poetry, indeed of every compo¬ 
sition, should be to make some useful impression on the mind. 
This useful impression is most commonly made in poetry, by in¬ 
direct methods; as by fable, by narration, by representation of 
characters; but didactic poetry openly professes its intention ot’ 
conveying knowledge and instruction. It differs, therefore, in the 
form only, not in the scope and substance, from a philosophical, a 
moral, ora critical treatise in prose. At the same time, by means 
of its form, it has several advantages over prose instruction. By 
the charm of versification and numbers, it renders instruction more 
agreeable; by the descriptions, episodes, and other embellishments, 
which it may interweave, it detains, and engages the fancy ; it fixes 
also useful circumstances more deeply in the memory. Hence, it 
is a field wherein a poet may gain great honour, may display both 
much genius, and much knowledge and judgment. 

It may be executed in different manners. The poet may choose 
some instructive subject, and he may treat it regularly, and in 
form; or, without intending a great or regular work, he may only 
inveigh against particular vices, or make some moral observations 
on human life and characters, as is commonly done in satires and 
epistles. All these come under the denomination of didactic poetry. 

The highest species of it, is a regular treatise on some philo¬ 
sophical, grave, or useful subject. Of this nature we have several, 
both ancient and modern, of great merit and character: such as 
Lucretius’s six books De Rerum Natura, Virgil’s Georgies, Pope’s 
Essay on Criticism, Akenside’s Pleasures of the Imagination, Arm¬ 
strong on Health, Horace’s, Vida’s, and Boileau’s Art of Poetry. 

In all such works, as instruction is the professed object, the fun¬ 
damental merit consists in sound thought, just principles, clear and 
apt illustrations. The poet must instruct; but he must study, at the 
same time, to enliven his instructions, by the introduction of such 
figures, and such circumstances, as may amuse the imagination, may 
conceal the dryness of his subject, and embellish it with poetical 
painting. Virgil, in his Georgies, presents us here with a perfect 
model. He has the art of raising and beautifying the most trivial 
circumstances in rural life. When he is going to say that the labour 
of the country must begin in spring, he expresses himself thus: 

Vere novo, gelidus canis cum montibus humor 
Liquitur, et Zephyro putris se gleba re solvit; 



44b 


DIDACTIC POETRY. 


[lect. Xt. 


Depresso incipiat jam turn mihi Taurus aratro 

Ingemere, et sulco attritus splendescere vomer.* !• 43. 

Instead of telling his husbandman in plain language, that his crops 
will fail through bad management, his language is, 

Heu, magnum alterius frustra spectabis acervum, 

Concussaque famem in silvis solabere quercu.f 1- 158. 

Instead of ordering him to water his grounds, he presents us with 
a beautiful landscape. 

Ecce supercilio clivosi tramitis undam 

Elicit ? ilia cadens, raucum per laevia murmur 

Saxa ciet, scatebrisque aientia temperat arva.J I- 108. 

In all didactic works, method and order are essentially requi¬ 
site ; not so strict and formal as in a prose treatise ; yet such as may 
exhibit clearly to the reader a connected train of instruction.— 
Of the didactic poets, whom I before mentioned, Horace, in his 
Art of Poetry, is the one most censured for want of method. In¬ 
deed, if Horace be deficient in any thing throughout many of bis 
writings, it is in this, of not being sufficiently attentive to juncture 
and connexion of parts. He writes always with ease and graceful¬ 
ness ; but often in a manner somewhat loose and rambling. There 
is, however, in that work much good sense, and excellent criticism; 
and, if it be considered as intended for the regulation of the Roman 
drama, which seems to have been the author’s chief purpose, it will 
be found to be a more complete and regular treatise, than under 
the common notion of its being a system of the whole poetical art. 

With regard to episodes and embellishments, great liberty is al¬ 
lowed to writers of didactic poetry. We soon tire of a continued 
series of instructions, especially in a poetical work, where we look 
for entertainment. The great art of rendering a didactic poem in¬ 
teresting, is to relieve and amuse the reader, by connecting some 
agreeable episodes with the principal subject. These are always 
the parts of the work which are best known, and which contribute 
most to support the reputation of the poet. The principal beauties 
of Virgil’s Georgies lie in digressions of this kind, in which the au- 


* While yet the Spring is young, while earth unbinds 
Her frozen bosom to the western winds ; 

While mountain snows dissolve against the sun, 
And streams yet new from precipices run; 

Ev’n in this early dawning of the year, 

Produce the plough and yoke the sturdy steer, 

And goad him till he groans beneath his toil, 

Till the bright share is buried in the soil, 
f On others’ crops you may with envy look, 

And shake for food the long abandon’d oak. 
t Behold when burning suns, or Sirius’ beams 
Strike fiercely on the field and withering stems, 
Down from the summit of the neighbouring hills, 
O’er the smooth stones he calls the bubbling rills : 
Soon as he clears whate'er their passage stay’d, 
And marks their future current with his spade, 
Before him scattering they prevent his pains, 

And roll with hollow murmurs o’er the plains. 


\ 


Dryden, 

Dryden. 


Wartof 



LECT. XL.] 


DIDACTIC POETRY. 


449 


thor has exerted all the force of his genius; such as the prodigies 
that attended the death of Julius Caesar, the praises of Italy, the 
happiness of a country life, the fable of Aristeus, and the moving 
tale of Orpheus and Eurydice. In like manner the favourite pas¬ 
sages in Lucretius’s work, and which alone could render such a dry 
and abstract subject tolerable in poetry, are the digressions on the 
evils of superstition, the praise of Epicurus and his philosophy, the 
description of the plague, and several other incidental illustrations, 
which are remarkably elegant, and adorned with a sweetness and 
harmony of versification peculiar to that poet. There is, indeed, 
nothing in poetry, so entertaining or descriptive, but what a didac¬ 
tic writer of genius may be allowed to introduce in some part of his 
work; provided always,that such episodes arise naturally from the 
main subject; that they be not disproportioned in length to it; and 
that the author know how to descend with propriety to the plain, 
as well as how to rise to the bold and figured style. 

Much art may be shown by a didactic poet in connecting his 
episodes happily with his subject. Virgil is also distinguished for 
his address in this point. After seeming to have left his husband¬ 
men, he again returns to them very naturally by laying hold of some 
rural circumstance, to terminate his digression. Thus, having 
spoken of the battle of Pharsalia, he subjoins immediately, with 
much art: 

Scilicet et tempos veniet, cum finibus illis 
Agricola, incurvo terram molitus aratro, 

Exesa inveniet scabra rubigine pila ; 

Aut gravibus rastris galcas pulsabit inanes, 

Grandiaque effossis mirabitur ossa sepulchris.* Geo. I. 49*3. 

In English, Dr. Akenside has attempted the most rich and poeti¬ 
cal form of didactic writing in his Pleasures of the Imagination ; and 
though, in the execution of the whole, he is not equal, he has, in 
several parts, succeeded happily, and displayed much genius. Dr. 
Armstrong, in his Art of Preserving Health, has not aimed at so 
high a strain as the other. But he is more equal; and maintains 
throughout a chaste and correct elegance. 

Satires and epistles naturally run into a more familiar style, than 
solemn philosophical poetry. As the manners and characters, 
which occur in ordinary life, are their subject, they require being 
treated with somewhat of the ease and freedom of conversation, 
and hence it is commonly the 4 musa pedestris,’ which reigns in 
such compositions. 

Satire, in its first state among the Romans, had a form different 
from what it afterwards assumed Its origin is obscure, and has 
given occasion to altercation among critics. It seems to have been 
at first a relic of the ancient comedy, written partly in prose, partly 

* Then, after length of time, the lab’ring swains 
Who turn the turf of these unhappy plains, 

Shall rusty arms from the plough’d furrows take, 

And over empty helmets pass the rake ; 

Amus’d at antique titles on the stones, 

And mighty relics of gigantic bones. 

3 T 57 


Drypek, 



450 


DIDACTIC POETRY. 


[LECT. XL. 


in verse, and abounding with scurrility. Ennius and Lucilius cor" 
rected its grossness; and at last, Horace brought it into that form, 
which now gives the denomination to satirical writing. Reforma¬ 
tion of manners, is the end which it professes to have in view ; and 
in order to this end, it assumes the liberty of boldly censuring vice, 
and vicious characters. It has been carried on in three different 
manners, by the three great ancient satirists, Horace, Juvenal, and 
Perseus. Horace’s style has not much elevation. He entitles his sa¬ 
tires, ( Sermones,’ and seems not to have intended rising much high¬ 
er than prose put into numbers. His manner is easy and gracefui. 
They are rather the follies and weaknesses of mankind, than their 
enormous vices, which he chooses for the object of his satire. He 
reproves with a smiling aspect; and while he moralizes like a sound 
philosopher, discovers, at the same time, the politeness of a cour¬ 
tier. Juvenal is much more serious and declamatory. He has 
more strength and tire, and more elevation of style, than Horace ; 
but is greatly inferior to him in gracefulness and ease. His satire 
is more zealous, more sharp and pointed, as being generally direc¬ 
ted against more flagitious characters. As Scaliger says of him, 
6 ardet, instat, jugulatwhereas Horace’s character is, ‘ admissus 
circum praecordia ludit. ’ Perseus has a greater resemblance of the 
force and fire of Juvenal, than of the politeness of Horace. He is 
distinguished for sentiments of noble and sublime morality. He is a 
nervous and lively writer; but withal, often harsh and obscure. 

Poetical epistles, when employed on moral or critical subjects, 
seldom rise into a higher strain of poetry than satires. In the form 
of an epistle, indeed, many other subjects may be handled, and 
either love poetry, or elegiac, may be carried on ; as in Ovid’s Epis- 
tolae Herodium, and his Epistolae de Ponto. Such works as these 
are designed to be merely sentimental; and as their merit consists 
in being proper expressions of the passion or sentiment which forms 
the subject, they may assume any tone of poetry that is suited to it. 
But didactic epistles, of which I now speak, seldom admit of much 
elevation. They are commonly intended as observations on authors, 
or on life and characters ; in delivering which, the poet does not 
purpose to compose a formal treatise, or to confine himself strictly 
to regular method ; but gives scope to his genius on some particular 
theme, which, at the time, has prompted him to write. In all didactic 
poetry of this kind, it is an important rule/quicquid praecipies, esto 
brevis.’ Much of the grace, both of satirical and epistolary writing, 
consists in a spirited conciseness. This gives to such composition 
an edge and a liveliness, which strike the fancy, and keep attention 
awake. Much of their merit depends also on just and happy re¬ 
presentations of characters. As they are not supported by those 
high beauties of descriptive and poetical language which adorn 
other compositions, we expect, in return, to be entertained with 
lively paintings of men and manners, which are always pleasing ; 
and in these, a certain sprightliness and turn of wit finds its proper 
place. The higher species of poetry seldom admit it; but here it 
is seasonable and beautiful. 


LECT. XL.] 


DIDACTIC POETRY. 


451 


In all these respects, Mr. Pope’s ethical epistles deserve to be 
mentioned with signal honour, as a model, next to perfect, of this 
kind of poetry. Here, perhaps, the strength of his genius appear¬ 
ed. In the more sublime parts of poetry, he is not so distinguished. 
In the enthusiasm, the fire, the force, and copiousness of poetic 
genius, Dryden, though a much less correct writer, appears to have 
been superior to him. Onecanscarcelythink that he w'as capable 
of epic or tragic poetry; but within a certain limited region, he has 
been outdone by no poet. His translation of the Iliad will remain 
a lasting monument to his honour, as the most elegant and highly 
finished translation, that, perhaps, ever was given of any poetical 
work. That he was not incapable of tender poetry, appears from 
the epistle of Eloisa to Abelard, and from the verses to the memory 
of an unfortunate lady, which are almost his only sentimental pro¬ 
ductions ; and which, indeed, are excellent in their kind. But the 
qualities for which he is chiefly distinguished are, judgment and wit, 
with a concise and happy expression, and a melodious versification. 
Few poets ever had more wit, and at the same time more judgment, 
to direct the proper employment of that wit. This renders his 
Rape of the Lock the greatest masterpiece that perhaps was ever 
composed, in the gay and sprightly style ; and in his serious works, 
such as his Essay on Man, and his Ethic Epistles, his wit just suf¬ 
ficiently discovers itself to give a proper seasoning to grave reflec¬ 
tions. His imitations of Horace are so peculiarly happy, that one is 
at a loss, whether most to admire the original or the copy ; and they 
are among the few imitations extant, that have all the grace and 
ease of an original. His paintings of characters are natural and 
lively in a high degree ; and never was any writer so happy in that 
concise spirited style, which gives animation to satires and epistles. 
We are never so sensible of the good effects of rhyme in English 
verse, as in reading these parts of his works. We see it adding to 
the style, an elevation which otherwise it could not have possessed ; 
while at the same time he manages it so artfully, that it never ap¬ 
pears in the least to encumber him ; but, on the contrary, serves to 
increase the liveliness of his manner. He tells us himself, that he 
could express moral observations more concisely, and therefore 
more forcibly, in rhyme, than he could do in prose. 

Among moral and didactic poets, Dr. Young is of too great emi¬ 
nence to be passed over without notice. In all his works, the marks 
of strong genius appear. His universal passion, possesses the full 
merit of that animated conciseness of style, and lively description of 
characters, which I mentioned as particularly requisite in satirical 
and didactic compositions. Though his wit may often be thought too 
sparkling, and his sentences too pointed, yet the vivacity of his fancy 
is so great, as to entertain every reader. In his Night Thoughts, 
there is much energy of expression ; in the three first, there are seve¬ 
ral pathetic passages; and scattered through them all, happy ima¬ 
ges and allusions, as well as pious reflections, occur. But the sen¬ 
timents are frequently overstrained and turgid ; and the style is too 
harsh and obscure to be pleasing. Among French authors, Boileau 


DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 


[LECT. XL- 


452 

has undoubtedly much merit in didactic poetry. Their later critics 
are unwilling to allow him any great share of original genius, or 
poetic fire.* But his art of poetry, his satires and epistles, must, 
ever be esteemed eminent, not only for solid and judicious thought, 
but for correct and elegant poetical expression, and fortunate imi¬ 
tation of the ancients. 

From didactic, I proceed next to treat of descriptive poetry, 
where the highest exertions of genius may be displayed. By des¬ 
criptive poetry, I do not mean any one particular species or form ot 
composition. There are few compositions of any length, that can 
be called purely descriptive, or wherein the poet proposes to himself 
no other object, but merely to describe, without employing narra¬ 
tion, action, or moral sentiment, as the groundwork of his piece. 
Description is generally introduced as an embellishment, rather than 
made the subject of a regular work. But though it seldom form 
a separate species of writing,yet into every species of poetical com¬ 
position, pastoral, lyric, didactic, epic, and dramatic, it both enters 
and possesses in each of them a very considerable place; so that in 
treating of poetry, it demands no small attention. 

Description is the great test of a poet’s imagination ; and always 
distinguishes an original from a second-rate genius. To a writer of 
the inferior class, nature, when at any time he attempts to describe 
it, appears exhausted by those who have gone before him in the 
same track. He sees nothing new, or peculiar, in the object which 
he would paint; his conceptions of it are loose and vague ; and his 
expressions, of course, feeble and general. He gives us words rather 
than ideas ; we meet with the language indeed of poetical descrip¬ 
tion, but we apprehend the object described very indistinctly. 
Whereas, a true poet makes us imagine that we see it before our 
eyes ; he catches the distinguishing features; he gives it the colours 
of life and reality: he places it in such a light that a painter could 
copy after him. This happy talent is chiefly owing to a strong 
imagination, which first receives a lively impression of the object; 
and then, by employing a proper selection of circumstances in de¬ 
scribing it, transmits that impression in its full force to the imagina¬ 
tion of others. 

In this selection of circumstances lies the great art of picturesque 
description. In the first place, they ought not to be vulgar and com¬ 
mon ones, such as are apt to pass by without remark; but, as much 
as possible, new and original, which may catch the fancy and draw 
attention. In the next place, they ought to be such as particularize 
the object described, and mark it strongly. No description, that 
rests in generals, can be good. For we can conceive nothing clearly 
in the abstract; all distinct ideas are formed upon particulars. In 
the third place, all the circumstances employed ought to be uniform, 
and of a piece; that is, when describing a great object, every cir¬ 
cumstance brought into view should tend to aggrandize; or, when 
describing a gay and pleasant one, should tend to beautify, that by 


* Vid. Poetique Francoise de Marmontel, 





LECT. XL.] 


DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 


453 


this means, the impression may rest upon the imagination complete 
and entire: and lastly, the circumstances in description should be 
expressed with conciseness and with simplicity; for, when either too 
much exaggerated, or too long dwelt upon and extended, they never 
fail to enfeeble the impression that is designed to be made. Brevity, 
almost always contributes to vivacity. These general rules will be 
best understood by illustrations, founded on particular instances. 

Of all professed descriptive compositions, the largest and fullest 
that I am acquainted with, in any language, is Mr. Thomson’s Sea¬ 
sons ; a work which possesses very uncommon merit. The style,in 
the midst of much splendour and strength, is sometimes harsh, and 
may be censured as deficient in ease and distinctness. But notwith¬ 
standing this defect, Thomson is a strong and a beautiful describer; 
for he had a feeling heart, and a warm imagination. He had studied 
and copied nature with care. Enamoured of her beauties, he not 
only described them properly, but felt their impression with strong 
sensibility. The impression which he felt, he transmits to his read¬ 
ers ; and no person of taste can peruse any one of his Seasons, 
without having the ideas and feelings, which belong to that season, 
recalled and rendered present to his mind. Several instances of 
most beautiful description might be given from him; such as, the 
shower in Spring, the morning in Summer, and the man perishing 
in snow in Winter. But, at present, I shall produce a passage of 
another kind, to show the power of a single well chosen circum¬ 
stance, to heighten a description. In his Summer, relating the 
effects of heat in the torrid zone, he is led to take notice of the 
pestilence that destroyed the English fleet, at Carthagena, under 
Admiral Vernon; when he has the following lines : 

-You, gallant Vernon, saw 

The miserable scene ; you pitying saw 
To infant weakness sunk the warrior’s arms ; 

Saw the deep racking pang ; the ghastly form; 

The lip pale quiv’ring ; and the beamless eye 
No more with ardour bright; you heard the groans 
Of agonizing ships from shore to shore ; 

Heard nightly plunged, amid the sullen waves, 

The frequent corse.- L. 1050. 

All the circumstances here are properly chosen, for setting this 
dismal scene in a strong light before our eyes. But what is most 
striking in the picture, is, the last image. We are conducted 
through all the scenes of distress, till we come to the mortality 
prevailing in the fleet, which a vulgar poet would have described 
by exaggerated expressions, concerning the multiplied trophies and 
victories of death. But, how much more is the imagination im¬ 
pressed, by this single circumstance of dead bodies thrown over¬ 
board every night; of the constant sound of their falling into the 
waters, and of the Admiral listening to this melancholy sound, so 
often striking his ear ? 

Heard nightly plunged, amid the sullen waves, 

The frequent corse * 


' The eiitogium which Dr. Johnson, in his Lives of the Poets, gives of Thom- 




454 


DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 


[LECT. XL. 


Mr. Parnell’s tale of the Hermit is conspicuous throughout the 
whole of it, for beautiful descriptive narration. The manner of the 
Hermit’s setting forth to visit the world ; his meeting with a com¬ 
panion,and the houses in which they are successively entertained, of 
the vain man, the covetous man, and the good man, are pieces of 
very fine painting, touched with a light and delicate pencil, over¬ 
charged with no superfluous colouring, and conveying to us a lively 
idea of the objects. But, of all the English poems in the descrip¬ 
tive style, the richest and most remarkable are, Milton’s Allegro 
and Penseroso. The collection of gay images on the one hand, 
and of melancholy ones on the other, exhibited in these two small, 
but inimitably fine poems, are as exquisite as can be conceived. 
They are, indeed, the storehouse whence many succeeding poets 
have enriched their descriptions of similar subjects ; and they 
alone are sufficient for illustrating the observations which I made, 
concerning the proper selection of circumstances in descriptive 
writing. Take, for instance, the following passage from the Pen¬ 
seroso : 

■-1 walk unseen 

On the dry, smooth-shaven green, 

To behold the wandering moon, 

Riding near her highest noon : 

Like one that had been led astrav 
Through the heaven’s wide pathless way, 

And oft, as if her head she bow’d, 

Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 

Oft, on a plat of rising ground, 

I hear the far-off curfew sound, 

Over some wide watered shore, 

Swinging slow with solemn roar ; 

Or, if the air will not permit, 

Some still removed place will fit, 

VVhere glowing embers through the room 
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ; 

Far from all resort of mirth, 

Save the cricket on the hearth, 

Or the bellman’s drowsy charm, 

To bless the doors from nightly harm ; 


so "L ,! \ hl l h ’ a ^’ ! n “7 °P lmon > ver y just: ‘Asa writer, he is entitled to one praise 

ofthe highest kind ; his mode of thinking, and of expressing his thoughts, is original. 
His blank verse is no more the blank verse of Milton, or of any other poet, than the 
lhymes of Prior are the rhymes of Cowley His numbers, his pauses, his diction, are 
of his own growth, without transcription, without imitation. He thinks in a peculiar 
tiain, and he thinks always as a man of genius. He looks round on nature and life 
with the eye which nature bestows only on a poet; the eye that distinguishes in everv 
thing presented to its view, whatever there is on which imagination can delight to be 
detained ; and with a mind, that at once comprehends the vast and attends to the 
minute. Ihe reader ofthe Seasons wonders that he never saw before what Thomson 
shows him, and that he never yet has felt what Thomson impresses. His descriptions 
of extended scenes, and general effects, bring before us the whole magnificence of 
nature, whether pleasing or dreadful. The gayety of spring, the splendour of summer, 
the tianquillity of autumn, and the horror of winter, take, in their turn, possession of 
the mind. The poet leads us through the appearances of things, as they are succes¬ 
sively varied by the vicissitudes of the year, and imparts to us so much of his own 
enthusiasm that our thoughts expand with his imagery, and kindle with his senti¬ 
ments. The censure which the same eminent critic passes upon Thomson’s diction 

: s "° ? S .^ S im nd r 11 foUnded > that <U is t°° exuberant, and may sometimes be 
cbaiged w ith filling the ear more than the mind.’ 




LECT. XL.] 


DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 


455 


Or let my lamp, at midnight hour. 

Be seen, in some high lonely tower. 

Where I may outwatch the Bear 
With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere 
The spirit of Plato, to unfold 
What worlds, or what vast regions hold 
Th’ immortal mind, that hath forsook 
Her mansion in his fleshly nook ; 

And of those demons that are found 
In fire, air, flood, or under ground. 

Here there are no unmeaning general expressions; all is particu¬ 
lar, all is picturesque; nothing forced or exaggerated; but a simple 
style, and a collection of strong expressive images, which are all of 
one class, and recal a number of similar ideas of the melancholy 
kind: particularly the walk by moon-light; the sound of the curfew- 
bell heard distant; the dying embers in the chamber ; the bellman’s 
call; and the lamp seen at midnight in the high lonely tower. We 
may observe, too, the conciseness of the poet’s manner. He does 
not rest long on one circumstance, or employ a great many words 
to describe it; which always makes the impression faint and lan¬ 
guid ; but placing it in one strong point of view, full and clear before 
the reader, he there leaves it. 

i From his shield and his helmet,’ says Homer, describing one 
of his heroes in battle,‘From his shield and his helmet, there 
sparkled an incessant blaze; like the autumnal star, when it appears 
in its brightness from the waters of the ocean.’ This is short and 
lively ; but when it comes into Mr. Pope’s hands, it evaporates in 
three pompous lines, each of which repeats the same image in 
different w r ords: 

High on his helm celestial lightnings play. 

His beamy shield emits a living ray ; 

Th’ unwearied blaze incessant streams supplies, 

Like the red star that fires th’ autumnal skies. 

It is to be observed, in general, that, in describing solemn or 
great objects, the concise manner is almost always proper. De¬ 
scriptions of gay and smiling scenes can bear to be more amplified 
and prolonged, as strength is not the predominant quality expected 
in these. But where a sublime or a pathetic impression is intended 
to be made, energy is above all things required. The imagination 
ought then to be seized at once; and it is far more deeply impressed 
by one strong and ardent image, than by the anxious minuteness 
of laboured illustration. ‘ His face was without form, and dark,’ 
says Ossian, describing a ghost, 6 the stars dim twinkling through 
his form ; thrice he sighed over the hero; and thrice the winds of 
the night roared around.’ 

It deserves attention,too, that in describing inanimate natural ob¬ 
jects, the poet, in order to enliven his description, ought always to 
mix living beings with them. The scenes of dead and still life are 
apt to pall upon us, if the poet do not suggest sentiments and intro¬ 
duce life and action into his description. This is well known to 
every painter who is a master of his art. Seldom has any beautiful 


456 DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. [lect. xl. 

landscape been drawn, without some human being represented on 
the canvas, as beholding it, or on some account concerned in it: 

H)c gelidi fontes, hie mollia prata, Lycori, 

Hie nemus, hie ipso tecum consumerer aevo.* Eel. x. 42. 

The touching part of these fine lines of Virgil’s, is the last, which 
sets before us the interest of two lovers in this rural scene. A long 
description of \\\z‘fontes,\Y\z ‘ weraw.?,’and the ‘prata,' in the most 
poetical modern manner, would have been insipid without this 
stroke, which in a few words, brings home to the heart all the beau¬ 
ties of the place : ( hie ipso tecum consumerer aevo.’ It is a great 
beauty in Milton’s Allegro, that it is all alive, and full of persons. 

Every thing, as I before said, in description, should be as marked 
and as particular as possible, in order to imprint on the mind a dis¬ 
tinct and complete image. A hill, a river, or a lake, rises up more 
conspicuous to the fancy, when some particular lake, or river, or 
hill, is specified, than when the terms are left general. Most of the 
ancient writers have been sensible of the advantage which this gives 
to description. Thus, in that beautiful pastoral composition, the 
Song of Solomon, the images are commonly particularized by the 
objects to which they allude. It is the ‘ rose of Sharon ; the lily of 
the vallies; the flock which feeds on Mount Gilead; the stream 
which comes from Mount Lebanon. Come with me, from Leba¬ 
non, my spouse ; look from the top of Amana, from the top of She- 
nir and Hermon, from the mountains of the leopards.’ Chap. iv. 8. 
So Horace: 

Quid dedicatum poscit Apollinera 
Vates ? quid orat de patera novum 
Fundens liquorem ? non opimas 
Sardiniae segetes feracis ; 

Non eestuosse grata Calabriae 
Armenta ; non aurum aut ebur Indicum 
Non rura, quae Liris quieti 

Mordet aqu&, taciturnus amnis.t Lib. I. Ode 31. 1. 

Both Homer and Virgil are remarkable for the talent of poetical 
description. In Virgil’s second ^Eneid, where he describes the bur¬ 
ningand sacking of Troy, the particulars are so well selected and re¬ 
presented, that the reader finds himself in the midst of that scene of 


* Here cooling fountains roll through flow’ry meads, 

Here woods, Lycoris, lift their verdant heads, 

Here could I wear my careless life away. 

And in thy arms insensibly decay. Warton. 

I When at Apollo’s hallowed shrine 
The poet hails the power divine, 

And here his first libation pours. 

What is the blessing he implores r 
He nor desires the swelling grain, 

That yellows o’er Sardinia’s plain, 

Nor the fair herds, that, lowing, feed 
On warm Calabria’s flowery mead ; 

Nor ivory of spotless shine ; 

Nor gold forth flaming from the mine : 

Nor the rich fields that Liris laves, 

And eats away with silent waves. 


Francis. 





LECT. XL.] 


DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 


457 


horror. The death of Priam, especially, may be singled out as a 
masterpiece of description. All the circumstances of the aged mon¬ 
arch arraying himself in armour, when he finds the enemy making 
themselves masters of the city; his meeting with his family, who 
are taking shelter at an altar in the court of the palace, and their 
placing him in the midst of them ; his indignation when he beholds 
Pyrrhus slaughtering one of his sons; the feeble dart which he 
throws; with Pyrrhus’s brutal behaviour, and his manner of putting 
the old man to death, are painted in the most affecting manner, and 
with a masterly hand. All Homer’s battles, and Milton’s account, 
both of Paradise and of the infernal regions, furnish many beautiful 
instances of poetical description. Ossian, too, paints in strong and 
lively colours, though he employs few circumstances; and his chief 
excellency lies in painting to the heart. One of his fullest descrip¬ 
tions is the following of the ruins of Balclutha; 4 1 have seen the 
walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate. The fire had resounded 
within the halls; and the voice of the people is now heard no more. 
The stream of Clutha was removed from its place, by the fall of the 
walls; the thistle shook there its lonely head; the moss whistled to 
the wind. The fox looked out at the window; the rank grass waved 
round his head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina. Silence is in 
the house of her fathers.’ Shakspeare cannot be omitted on this 
occasion, as singularly eminent for painting with the pencil of nature. 
Though it be in manners and characters, that his chief excellency 
lies, yet his scenery also is often exquisite, and happily described by 
a single stroke ; as in that fine line of the 4 Merchant of Venice,’ 
which conveys to the fancy as natural and beautiful an image, as can 
possibly be exhibited in so few words: 

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! 

Here will we sit, &c. 

Much of the beauty of descriptive poetry depends upon a right 
choice of epithets. Many poets, it must be confessed, are too care¬ 
less in this particular. Epithets are frequently brought in merely to 
complete the verse, or make the rhyme answer ; and hence they are 
so unmeaning and redundant, expletive words only, which in place 
of adding any thing to the description, clog and enervate it. Virgil’s 
4 Liquidi fontes,’ and Horace’s 4 Prata canis albicant pruinis,’ must, 
I am afraid, be assigned to this class: for, to denote by an epithet 
that water is liquid, or that snow is white, is no better than mere 
tautology. Every epithet should either add a new idea to the word 
which it qualifies, or at least serve to raise and heighten its known 
signification. So in Milton, 

-Who shall tempt with wand’ring feet 

The dark, unbottom’d, infinite abyss, 

And through the palpable obscure, find out 
His uncouth way? or spread his airy flight, 

Upborne with indefatigable wings, 

Over the vast abrupt ? B. H. 

The epithets employed here plainly add strength to the description, 
and assist the fancy in conceiving it;—the wandering feet—the un- 
3 IT 58 


458 


DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 


[LECT. XL, 


bottomed abyss—the palpable obscure—the uncouth way—the in¬ 
defatigable wing—serve to render the images more complete and 
distinct. But there are many general epithets, which, though they 
appear to raise the signification of the word to which they are join¬ 
ed, yet leave it so undetermined, and are now become so trite and 
beaten in poetical language, as to be perfectly insipid. Of this kind 
are ‘ barbarous discord—hateful envy—mighty chiefs—bloody war 
—gloomy shades—direful scenes/ and a thousand more of the same 
kind which we meet with occasionally in good poets; but with which, 
poets of inferior genius abound every where, as the great props of 
their affected sublimity. They give a sort of swell to the language, 
and raise it above the tone of prose; but they serve not in the least to 
illustrate the object described ; on the contrary, they load the style 
with a languid verbosity. 

Sometimes it is in the power of a poet of genius, by one well- 
chosen epithet, to accomplish a description, and by means of a 
single word, to paint a whole scene to the fancy. We may remark 
this effect of an epithet in the following fine lines of Milton’s Lycidas: 

Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 
Clos’d o’er the head of your lov’d Lycidas? 

For neither were ye playing on the steep, 

Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, 

Nor on the shaggy.top of Mona high, 

Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. 

Among these wild scenes, ‘Deva’s wizard stream’ is admirably 
imaged; by this one word, presenting to the fancy all the romantic 
ideas, of a river flowing through a desolate country, with banks haunt¬ 
ed by wizards and enchanters. Akin to this is an epithet which 
Horace gives to the river Hydaspes. A good man, says he, stands 
in need of no arms, 

Sive per Syrtes iter aestuosas, 

Sive facturus per inhospitalem 
Caucasian, vel quai loca fabulosus 

Lambit Hydaspes.* I. od. 22. 5. 

This epithet ‘fabulosus,’ one of the commentators on Horace has 
changed into ‘sabulosus,’ or‘sandysubstituting, by a strange want 
of taste, the common and trivial epithet of ‘ the sandy river,’ in place 
of that beautiful picture which the poet gives us, by calling Hydaspes 
‘ the romantic river,’ or the scene of adventures and poetic tales. 

Virgil has employed an epithet with great beauty and propriety, 
when accounting for Daedalus not having engraved the fortune of his 
son Icarus: 

Bis conatus erat casus effingere in auro ; 

Bis patriae cecidere manus.t iEn. vi. 32. 

* Whether through Lybia’s burning sands 
Our journey leads, or Scythia’s lands, 

Amidst th’ unhospitable waste of snows, 

Or where the fabulous Hydaspes flows. Francis. 

f Here hapless Icarus had found his part, 

Had not the father’s grief restrain’d his art: 

He twice essay’d to cast his son in gold, 

Twice from his hand he dropp’d the forming mould. Dryden. 

In this translation the thought is justly given; but the beauty of the expression ‘ patriae 
raanus,’ which in the original conveys the thought with so much tenderness, is lost 



LECT. XL.J 


QUESTIONS. 


459 


These instances and observations may give some just idea of true 
poetical description. We have reason always to distrust an author’s 
descriptive talents, when we find him laborious and turgid, amassing 
common place epithets and general expressions, to work up a high 
conception of some object, of which, after all, we can form but an 
indistinct idea. The best describers are simple and concise. They 
set before us such features of an object, as, on the first view, strike 
and warm the fancy; they give us ideas which a statuary or a 
painter could lay hold of, and work after them ; which is one of the 
strongest and most decisive trials of real merit of description. 


QUESTIONS, 


Having treated of pastoral and lyric 
poetry, to what does our author pro¬ 
ceed ; and under it, what is included ? 
What should be the ultimate end of 
compositions of every kind ? In what 
manner is this useful impression, in 
poetry, most commonly made ? From 
what, therefore, does it, in form only, 
differ ? At the same time, by means of 
its form, what advantages has it over 
prose instruction; and hence, what 
follows ? In what different ways may it 
be executed ? All these come under 
what denomination ? What is the high¬ 
est species of it ? Of this nature, what 
poems have we ? In all such works, as 
instruction is the professed object, in 
what does the fundamental merit con¬ 
sist? While the poet must instruct, 
what must he, at the same time, stu¬ 
dy ? Where do we find a perfect model 
of this; and what art does he possess ? 
By what passage is this remark illus¬ 
trated ? Instead of telling his husband¬ 
man, in plain language, that his crops 
will fail through bad management, 
what is his language ? Instead of or¬ 
dering him to water his grounds, with 
what does he present us ? Repeat the 
passage. In all didactic works, what 
are essentially requisite ? Of Horace’s 
Art of Poetry, what is remarked; and 
of him, what is farther observed? 
What, however, does that work con¬ 
tain? How should it be considered; 
and of it, what is then observed ? With 
regard to episodes and embellishments, 
what is remarked; and why ? What 
is the great art of rendering a didactic 
poem interesting ? Of these, what is 
observed? From Virgil’s Georgies. 


what beauties of this kind are men¬ 
tioned ? What other passages are also 
mentioned ; and of them, what is ob¬ 
served ? By what remark are these il¬ 
lustrations followed ? In what, by a 
didactic poet, may much art be shown? 
What instance have we of Virgil’s ad¬ 
dress in this point ? Of Dr. Akenside’s 
Pleasures of the Imagination, what is 
remarked; and also of Dr. Armstrong, 
in his Art of Preserving Health ? Into 
what style do satires and epistles na¬ 
turally run? As the manners and cha¬ 
racters, which occur in ordinary life, 
are their subject, what follows? Of sa¬ 
tire, in its early state, what is observed ? 
Who corrected its grossness; and what 
was done by Horace? What end does 
it profess to have in view; and in order 
to this end, what does it assume ? In 
how many different ways, and by 
whom, has it been carried on? In 
what manner does Horace conduct it? 
Of Juvenal’s manner, what is obser¬ 
ved ? Which does Perseus resemble; 
and for what is he distinguished ? Of 
poetical epistles, when employed on 
moral or critical subjects, what is ob¬ 
served ? In the form of an epistle, how¬ 
ever, what may be done; and what in¬ 
stances are given ? For what are such 
works as these designed; and what 
follows ? But of didactic epistles, what 
is observed? In all didactic poetry of 
this kind, what is an important rule ? 
In what does much of their grace con¬ 
sist ; and what does this give to such 
compositions? On what, also, does 
much of their merit depend ? How is 
this illustrated ? Of Mr. Pope’s ethical 
epistles, what is observed ? Here, what 







459 a 


QUESTIONS. 


is further observed of him, and also of 
Dry den ? Of what would one scarcely 
think him capable; but what remark 
follows ? Of his translation of the Iliad, 
what is observed ? From what does it 
appear that he was capable of tender 
poetry ? But what are the qualities for 
which he is chiefly distinguished ? Ho w 
is this remark illustrated ? What is the 
character of his imitations of Horace ? 
Of his paintings of characters* what is 
observed ? What idea do these parts of 
his works give us of the effect of rhyme? 
What does he himself tell us ? Among 
moral and didactic poets, who must 
not be passed over in silence ? What 
appears in all his works ? Of his Uni¬ 
versal Passion, what is observed ? 
Though his wit may often be too 
sparkling, yet, what follows ? Of his 
Night Thoughts, what is observed ? 
Among French authors, who has much 
merit in didactic poetry? Of his art of 
poetry, his satires, and his epistles, what 
is observed ? 

From didactic, to what does our au¬ 
thor next proceed ? By descriptive poe¬ 
try, what is not meant; and why? 
For what purpose is description gene¬ 
rally introduced ? But why does it de¬ 
mand no small attention ? Of what is 
description the great test; and what 
does it always distinguish ? How is 
this remark fully illustrated ? To what 
is this happy talent chiefly owing ? In 
what lies the great art of picturesque 
description ? That these may be right¬ 
ly selected, what general directions are 
given ? How will these general rules 
be best understood ? Which is the lar¬ 
gest and fullest professed descriptive 
composition in any language; and of it, 
what is observed ? What is its style ? 
Notwithstanding this defect, of him, 
what is observed? What had he stu¬ 
died and copied; and being enamour¬ 
ed of her beauties, what was the con¬ 
sequence? Transmitting the impres¬ 
sion which he felt to his readers, what 
follows ? What instances of beautiful 
description might be given; but what 
one only is produced ? Repeat it. Of 
this passage, what is remarked ? Re¬ 
peat the eulogium which Dr. Johnson 
gives of Thompson. What is said of 
Mr. Parnell’s tale of the Hermit? In it, 
what are pieces of very fine painting ; 
and of them, what is observed ? But of 


[LECT. XL. 

all the English poems in the descrip¬ 
tive style, what are the richest and 
most remarkable? Of these two poems, 
what is farther observed ? Repeat the 
passage here introduced from the Pen- 
seroso. On this passage, what remarks 
are made ? What says Homer, de¬ 
scribing one of his heroes in battle ? Of 
this passage, what is observed? Into 
what does it evaporate, when it comes 
into the hands of Pope ? Repeat Mr. 
Pope’s translation. What is to be ob¬ 
served ? What can bear to be more 
amplified and prolonged; and why ? 
But where a sublime or pathetic im¬ 
pression is intended to be made, what, 
above all things, is required ; and for 
what reason ? Repeat Ossian’s descrip¬ 
tion of a ghost. What, also, deserves 
attention? Why should this be done ? 
To whom is this Avell known; and 
what remark follows? What illustra¬ 
tive exatnple is given ? Of these five 
lines, what is remarked ? What is a 
great beauty in Milton’s Allegro? 
Why should every thing in descrip¬ 
tion be as marked and as particular as 
possible ? What illustration of this re¬ 
mark is given? What writers were 
sensible of this; and of this, what in¬ 
stance is given ? What passage is also 
introduced from Horace, illustrative of 
the same remark ? What evidence 
have we that both Homer and Virgil 
are remarkable for the talent of poeti¬ 
cal description? What furnish many 
beautiful instances of poetical descrip¬ 
tion? Of Ossian, what is observed? 
What passage is introduced as one of 
his fullest descriptions ? Of Shakspeare 
as a descriptive poet, what is observed; 
and what instance is given? Upon 
what does much of the beauty of de¬ 
scriptive poetry depend ? On this parti¬ 
cular, what remarks are made ? What 
poems of Virgil, and of Horace, must 
be assigned to this class; and why? 
What should every epithet do ? To il¬ 
lustrate this, what example is given 
from Milton ? Of the epithets here em¬ 
ployed, what is observed ? How is this 
illustrated? But, of what kind are 
there many epithets? Of this kind, 
what instances are given? What do 
they give to the language ; but what 
is their effect ? What is, sometimes, in 
t he power of a poet of genius ? In what 
lines may we remark this effect? 





LECT. XLI.J 


QUESTIONS. 


459 b 


Among these wild scenes, what is ad¬ 
mirably imagined ; and by this one 
word, presenting what ? Akin to this, 
is what epithet ? What does he say? 
Repeat the passage. What comment 
has been made on this passage ? In ac¬ 
counting for what, has Virgil employ¬ 
ed an epithet with great beauty and 
propriety? Repeat the passage. 01' 
what may these instances and obser¬ 
vations give some just idea ? When 
have w T e reason to distrust an author’s 
descriptive talents? Of the best de¬ 
scriptions, what is observed? What 
features of an object do they set before 
ns, and what do they give us ? 


ANALYSIS. 

1. Didactic poetry. 

a. The manner of its execution. 

b. Method and order essential. 

c. Episodes and embellishments. 

d. Satirical poems. 

e. Poetical epistles. 

f. Didactic writers of eminence. 

2. Descriptive poetry. 

a. Description the test of a poet’s ima¬ 
gination. 

a. The selection of circumstances. 

b. The character of Thompson’s Sea¬ 
sons. 

c. Parnell, Milton, &c. descriptive 
poets. 

D. Homer, Virgil, &c. descriptive poets. 
a. A proper choice of epithets of 
great importance. 


LECTURE XLI. 


THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. 

Among the various kinds of poetry which we are, at present, em¬ 
ployed in examining, the ancient Hebrew poetry, or that of the 
Scriptures, justly deserves a place. Viewing these sacred books in 
no higher light, than as they present to us the most ancient monu¬ 
ments of poetry extant, at this day, in the world, they afford a cu¬ 
rious object of criticism. They display the taste of a remote age 
and country. They exhibit a species of composition, very different 
from any other with which we are acquainted, and, at the same time, 
beautiful. Considered as inspired writings, they give rise to discus¬ 
sions of another kind. But it is our business, at present, to consider 
them not in a theological, hut in a critical view : and it must needs 
give pleasure, if we shall find the beauty and dignity of the composi¬ 
tion, adequate to the weight and importance of the matter. Dr. 
Lowth’s learned treatise, £ De Sacra Poesi Hebraeorum,’ ought to be 
perused by all who desire to become thoroughly acquainted with this 
subject. It is a. work exceedingly valuable, both for the elegance 
of its composition, and for the justness of the criticism which it con¬ 
tains. In this lecture, as I cannot illustrate the subject with more 
benefit to the reader, than by following the track of that ingenious 
author, I shall make much use of his observations. 

I need not spend many words in showing, that among the books oi 
the Old Testament, there is such an apparent diversity in style, as 
sufficiently discovers, which of them 3re to be considered as poetical, 
and which as prose compositions. While the historical books, and 
legislative writings of Moses, are evidently prosaic in the composi¬ 
tion, the book of Job, the Psalms of David, the Song of Solomon, the 
Lamentations of Jeremiah, a great part of the prophetical writings, and 
several passages scattered occasionally through the historical books, 
carry the most plain and distinguishing marks of poetical writing. 

There is not the least reason for doubting, that originally these 





460 THE POETRY OP THE HEBREWS, [lect. xli. 

were written in verse, or some kind of measured numbers: though, 
as the ancient pronunciation of the Hebrew language is now lost, we 
are not able to ascertain the nature of the Hebrew verse, or at most 
can ascertain it but imperfectly. Concerning this point there have 
een great controversiesamonglearned men, which it is unnecessary 
to our present purpose to discuss. Taking the Old Testament in our 
own translation, which is extremely literal, we find plain marksof ma¬ 
ny parts of the original being written in a measured style; and the 
disjecti membra poetae,’ often show themselves. Let any person 
read the historical introduction to the book of Job, contained in the 
. st and second chapters, and then go on to Job’s speech in the be¬ 
ginning of the third chapter, and he cannot avoid being sensible, that 
he passes all at once from the region of prose to that of poetry. Not 
only the poetical sentiments and the figured style, warn him of the 
change; but the cadence of the sentence, and the arrangement of 
he words,are sensibly altered; the change is as great as when he 
passes from reading Caesar’s Commentaries, to read Virgil’s jEneid. 

his is sufficient to show that the sacred Scriptures contain what 
must be called poetry in the strictest sense of that word ; and I shall 
afterwards show, that they contain instances of most of the different 
orms of poetical writing. It may be proper to remark in passing 
that hence arises a most invincible argument in honour of poetry 
No person can imagine that to be a frivolous and contemptible art! 
which has been employed by writers under divine inspiration, and has 
been chosen as a proper channel for conveying to the world the 
knowledge of divine truth. 

From the earliest times, music and poetry were cultivated among 
he Hebrews In the days of the judges, mention is made of the 
schools or colleges of the prophets; where one part of the employ¬ 
ment of the persons trained in such schools was, to sing the praises 
o God, accompanied with various instruments. In the first book of 
oamuel, (chap. x. 7.) we find, on a public" occasion, a company of 
these prophets coming down from the hill where their school was, 

the7’ Bui if’ hl'i d V,‘ With n the ,r lter - V ’ tabret ’ and before 

em. But in the days of king David, music and poetrv were carried 
to them greatest height. For the service of the tabernacle, he appoint- 
ed four thousand Levites, divided into twenty-four courses, and mar¬ 
shalled under several leaders, whose sole business it was to sing 
hymns, and to perform the instrumental music in the public worship. 
Asaph, Hernan, and Jeduthun, were the chief directors of the music; 
and from the titles of some psalms, it would appear that they were 

nf “u C iTru S of . h y mns or sacre d poems. In chapter xxv. 

of the first book of Chronicles, an account is given of David’s insti¬ 
tutions, relating to the sacred music and poetry; which were cer¬ 
tainly more costly, more splendid and magnificent, than ever obtain¬ 
ed^ the public service of any other nation. 

Fhe general construction of the Hebrew poetry is of a singular 
nature, and peculiar to itself. It consists in dividing every pfriod 

n s l!r,!r m Cn t t i : r ° r i. th ,i. m0St pan int0 ec l ual members^ which 
answer to one another, both in sense and sound. Tn the first mem- 


lect. xli.] THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. 


461 


ber of the period a sentiment is expressed; and in the second mem- 
ber, the same sentiment is amplified, or is repeated in different 
terms, or sometimes contrasted with its opposite; but in such a 
manner that the same structure, and nearly the same number of 
words, is preserved. This is the general strain of all the Hebrew 
poetry. Instances of it occur every where on opening the Old 
Testament. Thus, in Psalm xcvi. ‘ Sing unto the Lord a new song 
—sing unto the Lord all the earth. Sing unto the Lord, and bless 
his name—show forth his salvation from day to day. Declare his 
glory among the heathen—his wonders among all the people. For 
the Lord is great, and greatly to be praised—he is to be feared 
above ail the gods. Honour and majesty are before him—strength 
and beauty are in his sanctuary.’ It is owing, in a great measure, 
to this form of composition, that our version, though in prose, retains 
so much of a poetical cast. For the version being strictly word 
for word after the original, the form and order of the original sen¬ 
tence are preserved ; which, by this artificial structure, this regular 
alternation and correspondence of parts, makes the ear sensible of 
a departure from the common style and tone of prose. 

The origin of this form of poetical composition among the He¬ 
brews, is clearly to be deduced from the manner in which their 
sacred hymns were wont to be sung. They were accompanied 
with music, and they were performed by choirs or bands of singers 
and musicians, who answered alternately to each other. When, for 
instance, one band began the hymn thus: ‘The Lord reigneth, let 
the earth rejoice;’ the chorus, or semi-chorus, took up the corres¬ 
ponding versicle; ‘ Let the multitude of the isles be glad thereof.’ 
—‘ Clouds and darkness are around about him,’ sung the one; the 
other replied, ‘Judgment and righteousness are the habitation of 
his throne.’ And in this manner their poetry, when set to music, 
naturally divided itself into a succession of strophes and antistrophes 
correspondent to each other; whence, it is probable, the antiphon, 
or responsory, in the public religious service of so many Christian 
churches, derived its origin. 

We are expressly told, in the book of Ezra, that the Levites sung 
in this manner; ‘ Alternation,’ or by course; (Ezra iii. 11.) and 
some of David’s Psalms bear plain marks of their being composed 
in order to be thus performed. The 24th Psalm, in particular, 
which is thought to have been composed on the great and solemn 
occasion of the ark of the covenant being brought back to Mount 
Zion, must have had a noble effect when performed after this man¬ 
ner, as Dr. Lowth has illustrated it. The whole people are supposed 
to be attending the procession. The Levites and singers, divided 
into their several courses, and accompanied with all their musical 
instruments, led the way. After the introduction to the Psalm, in 
the two first verses, when the procession begins to ascend the sacred 
mount, the question is put, as by a semi-chorus : ‘Who shall ascend 
unto the hill of the Lord, and who shall stand in his holy place?’ 
The response is made by the full chorus with the greatest dignity : 

« He that hath clean hands and a pure heart; who hath not. lifted 


462 THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS, [lect. xli. 

up his soul to vanity, nor sworn deceitfully. 5 As the procession 
approaches to the doors of the tabernacle, the chorus, with all their 
instruments, join in this exclamation : ‘ Lift up your heads, ye 
gates, and be ye lifted up, ye everlasting doors, and the King of 
Llory shall come in.’ Here the semi-chorus plainly breaks in, as 
with a lower voice, 4 Who is this King of Glory ? 5 and at the mo¬ 
ment when the ark is introduced into the tabernacle, the response 
is made by the burst of the whole chorus: i The Lord, strong and 
mighty ; the Lord, mighty in battle. 5 I take notice of this instance 
the rather, as it serves to show how much the grace and magnifi¬ 
cence of the sacred poems, as indeed of all poems, depends upon 
our knowing the particular occasions for which they were composed, 
and the particular circumstances to which they were adapted ; and 
how much of this beauty must now be lost to us, through our im¬ 
perfect acquaintance with many particulars of the Hebrew history, 
and Hebrew rites. J 

The method of composition which has been explained, by cor¬ 
responding versicles, being universally introduced into the hymns 
or musical poetry of the Jews, easily spread itself through their other 
poetical writings, which were not designed to be sung in alternate 
portions, and which therefore did not so much require this mode 
of composition. But the mode became familiar to their ears, and 
carried with it, a certain solemn majesty of style, particularly suited 
to sacred subjects. Hence,throughout the prophetical writings, we 
find it prevailing as much as in the Psalms of David; as, for in¬ 
stance, in the prophet Isaiah : (chap lx. 1.) ‘ Arise, shine, for thv 
light is com§, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee : for Jo! 
darkness shall cover the earth,—and gross darkness the people. But 
the Lord shall rise upon thee, and his glory shall be seen upon thee, 
and the Gentries shall come to thy light,and kings to the brightness 
of thy rising. This form of writing is one of the great character¬ 
istics of the ancient Hebrew poetry ; very different from, and even 
opposite to, the style of the Greek and Roman poets. 

Independently of this peculiar mode of construction, the sacred 
poetry is distinguished by the highest beauties of strong, concise, 
bold, and figurative expression. 

Conciseness and strength are two of its most remarkable charac¬ 
ters. One might indeed at first imagine, that the practice of the 
Hebrew poets, of always amplifying the same thought by repetition 
or contrast, might tend to enfeeble their style. But they conduct 
themselves so, as not to produce this effect. Their sentences are 
always short. Few superfluous words are used. The same thought 
is never dwelt upon long. To their conciseness and sobriety of 
expression, their poetry is indebted for much of its sublimity; and 
all writers who attempt the sublime, might profit much, by imitating 
m this respect, the style of the Old Testament. For, as I have for 
merly had occasion to show, nothing is so great an enemy to the 
sublime as prolixity or diffuseness. The mind is never so much 
affected by any great idea that is presented to it, as when it is struck 
an at. once. By attempting to prolong the impression, we at the 


lect. xli.J THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. 


463 


same time weaken it. Most of the ancient original poets of all 
nations are simple and concise. The superfluities and excrescences 
of style, were the result of imitation in after-times; when compo¬ 
sition passed into inferior hands, and flowed from art and study, 
more than from native genius. 

No writings whatever abound so much with the most bold and ani¬ 
mated figures, as the sacred books. It is proper to dwell a little 
upon this article ; as, through our early familiarity with these books, 
(a familiarity too often with the sound of the words, rather than 
with their sense and meaning,) beauties of style escape us in the 
Scripture, which, in any other book, would draw particular atten¬ 
tion. Metaphors, comparisons, allegories, and personifications, are 
there particularly frequent. In order to do justice to these, it is 
necessary that we transport ourselves as much as we can into the 
land of Judaea; and place before our eyes that scenery, and those 
objects, with which the Hebrew writers were conversant. Some 
attention of this kind is requisite, in order to relish the writings of 
any poet of a foreign country, and a different age. For the imagery 
of every good poet is copied from nature, and real life ; if it were 
not so, it could not be lively ; and therefore, in order to enter into 
the propriety of his images, we must endeavour to place ourselves 
in his situation. Now we shall find that the metaphors and com¬ 
parisons of the Hebrew poets, present to us a very beautiful view 
of the natural objects of their own country, and of the arts and em¬ 
ployments of their common life. 

Natural objects are in some measure common to them with poets 
of all ages and countries. Light and darkness, trees and flowers, 
the forest and the cultivated field, suggest to them many beautiful 
figures. But, in order to relish their figures of this kind, we must 
take notice, that several of them arise from the particular circum¬ 
stances of the land of Judaea. During the summer months, little or 
no rain falls throughout all that region. While the heats continued, 
the country was intolerably parched; want of water was a great 
distress ; and a plentiful shower falling, or a rivulet breaking forth, 
altered the whole face of nature, and introduced much higher ideas 
of refreshment and pleasure, than the like causes can suggest to us. 
Hence, to represent distress, such frequent allusions among them, 
to 4 a dry and thirsty land, where no water is ;’ and hence to de¬ 
scribe a change from distress to prosperity, their metaphors are 
founded on the falling of showers, and the bursting out of springs 
in the desert. Thus in Isaiah : 6 The wilderness and the solitary 
place shall be glad, and the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the 
rose. For in the wilderness shall waters break out, and streams 
in the desert; and the parched ground shall become a pool; and 
the thirsty land, springs of water; in the habitation of dragons 
there shall be grass, with rushes and reeds.’ Chap. xxxv. 1, 6, 7. 
Images of this nature are very familiar to Isaiah, and occur in many 
parts of his book. 

Again, as Judaea was a hilly country, it was, during the rainy 
months,exposed to frequent inundations by the rushing of torrents, 
3X 


464 


THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. [eect. xlt. 


which came clown suddenly from the mountains, and carried every 
thing before them; and Jordan, their only great river, annually 
overflowed its banks. Hence the frequent allusions to ‘ the noise, 
and to the rushings of many waters ;* and hence great calamities so 
often compared to the overflowing torrent, which, in such a coun¬ 
try, must have been images particularly striking: 4 Deep calleth 
unto deep at the noise of thy water-spouts ; all thy waves and thy 
billows are gone over me.’ Psalm xlii. 7. 

The two most remarkable mountains of the country, were Leba¬ 
non and Carmel; the former noted for its height, and the woods of 
lofty cedars that covered it; the latter,for its beauty and fertility, 
and the richness of its vines and olives. Hence, with the greatest pro¬ 
priety, Lebanon is employed as an image of whatever is great, 
strong, or magnificent; Carmel, of what is smiling and beautiful. 

‘ The glory of Lebanon/ says Isaiah, 6 shall be given to it, and the 
excellency of Carmel.* (xxxv. 2.) Lebanon is often put metaphori¬ 
cally for the whole state or people of Israel, for the temple, for the 
king of Assyria; Carmel, for the blessings of peace and prosperity. 

4 His countenance is as Lebanon/ says Solomon, speaking of the 
dignity of a man’s appearance; but when he describes female beau¬ 
ty, ‘ Thine head is like mount Carmel.* Song v. 15. and vii. 5. 

It is farther to be remarked under this head, that in the images 
of the awful and terrible kind, with which the sacred poets abound, 
they plainly draw their descriptions from that violence of the ele¬ 
ments, and those concussions of nature, with which their climate 
rendered them acquainted. Earthquakes were not unfrequent; 
and the tempests of hail, thunder, and lightning, in Judaea and 
Arabia, accompanied with whirlwinds and darkness, far exceed 
any thing of that sort which happens in more temperate regions. 
Isaiah describes, with great majesty, the earth ‘reeling to and fro 
like a drunkard, and removed like a cottage.* (xxiv. 20.) And in 
those circumstances of terror, with which an appearance of the Al¬ 
mighty is described in the 18th Psalm, when his ‘ pavilion round 
about him was darkness; when hailstones and coals of fire were his 
voice ; and when, at his rebuke, the channels of the waters are said 
to be seen, and the foundations of the hills discovered;* though 
there may be some reference, as Dr. Lowth thinks, to the history 
of God’s descent upon Mount Sinai, yet it seems more probable, 
that the figures were taken directly from those commotions of na¬ 
ture with which the author was acquainted, and which suggested 
stronger and nobler images than what now occur to us. 

Besides the natural objects of their own country, we find the rites 
of their religion, and the arts and employments of their common 
life, frequently employed as grounds of imagery among the Hebrews. 
They were a people chiefly occupied with agriculture and pasturage. 
These were arts held in high honour among them ; not disdained 
by their patriarchs, kings, and prophets. Little addicted to com¬ 
merce; separated from the rest of the world by their laws and their 
religion; they were, during the better days of their state, strangers 
in a great measure to the refinements of luxury. Hence flowed, of 


lect. xli.] THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. 


465 


course, the many allusions to pastoral life,to the ‘green pastures and 
the still waters,’ and to the care and watchfulness of a shepherd 
over his flock, which carry to this day so much beauty and tender¬ 
ness in them, in the 23d Psalm, and in many other passages of the 
poetical writings of Scripture. Hence, all the images founded upon 
rural employments, upon the wine-press, the threshing-floor, the 
stubble and the chaff. To disrelish all such images, is the effect of 
false delicacy. Homer is at least as frequent, and much more mi¬ 
nute and particular, in his similes, founded on what we now call low 
life; but, in his management of them, far inferior to the sacred wri¬ 
ters, who generally mix with their comparisons of this kind some¬ 
what of dignity and grandeur to ennoble them. What inexpressible 
grandeur does the following rural image in Isaiah, for instance, re¬ 
ceive from the intervention of the Deity : ‘ The nations shall rush like 
the rushings of many waters; but God shall rebuke them, and they 
shall fly far off; and they shall be chased as the chaff of the mountain 
before the wind, and like the down of the thistle before the whirlwind.’ 

Figurative allusions, too, we frequently find, to the rites and cere¬ 
monies of their religion; to the legal distinctions of things clean 
and unclean; to the mode of their temple service; to the dress of 
their priests; and to the most noted incidents recorded in their 
sacred history; as to the destruction of Sodom, the descent of 
God upon Mount Sinai, and the miraculous passage of the Israelites 
through the Red Sea. The religion of the Hebrews included the 
whole of their laws and civil constitution. It was full of splendid 
external rites that occupied their senses; it was connected with 
every part of their national history and establishment; and hence, 
all ideas founded on religion, possessed in this nation a dignity and 
importance peculiar to themselves, and were uncommonly fitted to 
impress the imagination. 

From all this it results, that the imagery of the sacred poets is, in 
a high degree, expressive and natural; it is copied directly from real 
objects that were before their eyes; it has this advantage, of being 
more complete within itself, more entirely founded on national ideas 
and manners, than that of most other poets. In reading their works, 
we find ourselves continually in the land of Judaea. The palm-trees, 
and the cedars of Lebanon, are ever rising in our view. The face of 
their territory, the circumstances of theirclimate, the mannersofthe 
people, and the august ceremonies of their religion, constantly pass 
under different forms before us. 

The comparisons employed by the sacred poets are generally 
short, touching on one point only of resemblance, rather than 
branching out into little episodes. In this respect, they have per¬ 
haps an advantage over the Greek and Roman authors; whose com¬ 
parisons, by the length to which they are extended, sometimes 
interrupt the narration too much, and carry too visible marks of 
study and labour. Whereas, in the Hebrew poets, they appear 
more like the glowings of a lively fancy, just glancing aside to some 
resembling object, and presently returning to its track.’ Such is the 


466 


THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. Llect. xli. 


following fine comparison, introduced to describe the happy influ¬ 
ence of good government upon a people, in what are called the 
last words of David, recorded in the 2d book of Samuel: (xxiii. 3.) 
“ He that ruleth over men must be just, ruling in the fear of God; 
and he shall be as the light of the morning, when the sun riseth ; 
even a morning without clouds; as the tender grass springing out of 
the earth, by clear shining after rain.” This is one of the most 
regular and formal comparisons in the sacred books. 

Allegory, likewise, is a figure frequently found in them. When 
formerly treating of this figure, I gave, for an instance of it, that 
remarkably fine and well-supported allegory, which occurs in the 
80th Psalm, wherein the people of Israel are compared to a vine. 
Of parables, which form a species of allegory, the prophetical wri¬ 
tings are full; and if to us they sometimes appear obscure, we must 
remember, that in those early times, it was universally the mode 
throughout all the eastern nations, to convey sacred truths under 
mysterious figures and representations. 

But the poetical figure, which, beyond all others, elevates the 
style of Scripture, and gives it a peculiar boldness and sublimity, is 
prosopopoeia or personification. No personifications employed by 
any poets, are so magnificent and striking as those of the inspired 
writers. On great occasions, they animate every part of nature; 
especially, when any appearance or operation of the Almighty is 
concerned. “ Before him went the pestilence—the w r aters saw thee, 
0 God, and were afraid—the mountains saw thee, and they trem¬ 
bled—the overflowing of the water passed by—the deep uttered 
his voice, and lifted up his hands on high.” When inquiry is made 
about the place of wisdom, Job introduces the “ Deep, saying, it is 
not in me; and the sea saith, it is not in me. Destruction and 
death say, We have heard the fame thereof with our ears.” That 
noted sublime passage in the book of Isaiah, which describes the 
fall of the king of Assyria, is full of personified objects; the fir-trees 
and cedars of Lebanon breaking forth into exultation on the fall of 
the tyrant; hell from beneath, stirring up all the dead to meet him 
at his coming; and the dead kings introduced as speaking, and join¬ 
ing in the triumph. In the same strain, are the many lively and 
passionate apostrophes to cities and counti ies, to persons and things, 
with which the prophetical writings every where abound. “ 0 thou 
sword of the Lord! how long will it be ere thou be quiet? put 
thyselfup into the scabbard, restand be still.” “How can it be quiet,” 
(as the reply is instantly made) “seeing the Lord hath given it a 
charge against Askelon, and the sea-shore? there hath he appointed 
it.” Jerem. xlvii. 6. 

In general, for it would carry us too far to enlarge upon all the 
instances, the style of the poetical books of the Old Testament is, 
beyond the style of all other poetical works, fervid, bold, and ani¬ 
mated. It is extremely different from that regular correct expres¬ 
sion, to which our ears are accustomed in modern poetry. It is the 
burst of inspiration. The scenes are not coolly described, but re¬ 
presented as passing before our eyes. Every object, and every 


W2CT. xli.J THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. 


467 


person, is addressed and spoken to, as if present. The transition 
is often abrupt; the connexion often obscure; the persons are often 
changed: figures crowded, and heaped upon one another. Bold 
sublimity, not correct elegance, is its character. We see the spirit 
of the writer raised beyond himself, and labouring to find vent for 
ideas too mighty for his utterance. 

After these remarks on the poetry of the Scriptures, in general, I 
shall conclude this dissertation, with a short account of the different 
kinds of poetical composition in the sacred books; and of the dis¬ 
tinguishing characters of some of the chief writers. 

The several kinds of poetical composition which we find in Scrip¬ 
ture, are chiefly of the didactic, elegiac, pastoral, and lyric. Of the 
didactic species of poetry, the book of Proverbs is the principal 
instance. The nine first chapters of that book are highly poetical, 
adorned with many distinguished graces and figures of expression. 
At the tenth chapter the style is sensibly altered, and descends into 
a lower strain, which is continued to the end: retaining, however, 
that sententious pointed manner, and that artful construction of pe¬ 
riod, which distinguish all the Hebrew poetry. The book of Eccle¬ 
siastes comes likewise under this head ; and some of the Psalms, as 
the 119th in particular. 

Of elegiac poetry, many very beautiful specimens occur in Scrip¬ 
ture; such as the lamentation of David over his friend Jonathan ; 
several passages in the prophetical books ; and several of David’s 
Psalms, composed on occasions of distress and mourning. The 42d 
Psalm, in particular, is, in the highest degree, tender and plaintive. 
But the most regular and perfect elegiac composition in the Scrip¬ 
ture, perhaps in the whole world, is the book, entitled the Lamen¬ 
tations of Jeremiah. As the prophet mourns in that book over the 
destruction of the temple, and the holy city, and the overthrow of 
the whole state, he assembles all the affecting images which a sub¬ 
ject so melancholy could suggest. The composition is uncommonly 
artificial. By turns, the prophet, and the city of Jerusalem, are in¬ 
troduced, as pouring forth their sorrows; and in the end, a chorus of 
the people send up the most earnest and plaintive supplications to 
God. The lines of the original, too, as may, in part, appear from 
our translation, are longer than is usual in the other kinds of Hebrew 
poetry : and the melody is rendered thereby more flowing and bet¬ 
ter adapted to the querimonious strain of elegy. 

The Song of Solomon affords us a high exemplification of pasto¬ 
ral poetry. Considered with respect to its spiritual meaning, it is 
undoubtedly a mystical allegory; in its form, it is a dramatic pasto¬ 
ral, or a perpetual dialogue between personages in the character of 
shepherds ; and suitably to that form, it is full of rural and pastoral 
images, from beginning to end. 

Of lyric poetry, or that which is intended to be accompanied with 
music, the Old Testament is full. Besides a great number of 
hymns and songs, which we find scattered in the historical and pro¬ 
phetical books, such as the song of Moses, the song of Deborah, 
and many others of like nature, the whole book of Psalms is to be 


468 


THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS, [lect. xli. 


considered as a collection of sacred odes. In these, we find the ode 
exhibited in all the varieties of its form, and supported with the 
highest spirit of lyric poetry; sometimes sprightly, cheerful, and tri¬ 
umphant; sometimes solemn and magnificent; sometimes tender and 
soft. From these instances, it clearly appears, that there are con¬ 
tained in the Holy Scriptures, full exemplifications of several of the 
chief kinds of poetical writing. 

Among the different composers of the sacred books, there is an 
evident diversity of style and manner; and to trace their different 
characters in this view, will contribute not a little towards our read¬ 
ing their writings with greater advantage. The most eminent of 
the sacred poets are, the author of the book of Job, David, and 
Isaiah. As the compositions of David are of the lyric kind, there is 
a greater variety of style and manner in his works, than in those of the 
other two. The manner in which, considered merely as a poet, 
David chiefly excels, is the pleasing, the soft, and the tender. In 
his Psalms there are many lofty and sublime passages ; but, in strength 
of description, he yields to Job; in sublimity, he yields to Isaiah. 
It is a sort of temperate grandeur, for which David is chiefly dis¬ 
tinguished ; and to this he always soon returns, when, upon some 
occasions, he rises above it. The Psalms in which he touches us 
most are those in which he describes the happiness of the right¬ 
eous, or the goodness of God ; expresses the tender breathings of a 
devout mind, or sends up moving and affectionate supplications to 
Heaven. Isaiah is,without exception, the most sublime of all poets. 
This is abundantly visible in our translation; and, what is a mate¬ 
rial circumstance, none of the books of Scripture appear to have 
been more happily translated than the writings of this prophet. 
Majesty is his reigning character; a majesty more commanding, 
and more uniformly supported, than is to be found among the rest 
of the Old Testament poets. He possesses, indeed, a dignity and 
grandeur, both in his conceptions and expressions, w hich is-al together 
unparalleled, and peculiar to himself. There is more clearness and 
order too, and a more visible distribution of parts, in his book, than 
in any other of the prophetical writings. 

When we compare him with the rest of the poetical prophets, we 
immediately see in Jeremiah a very different genius. Isaiah employs 
himself generally on magnificent subjects. Jeremiah seldom disco¬ 
vers any disposition to be sublime, and inclines always to the tender 
and elegiac. Ezekiel, in poetical grace and elegance, is much inferior 
to them both; but he is distinguished by a character of uncommon force 
and ardour. To use the elegant expressions of Bishop Lowth, with 
regard to this prophet: 4 Est atrox, vehemens, tragicus; in sensibus, 
fervidus, acerbus, indignabundus; in imaginibus fecundus, trucu- 
lentus, et nonnunquam pene deformis; in dictione grandiloquus. 
gravis, austerus, et interdum incultus; frequens in repetitiombus’ 
non decoris aut gratiae oausa, sed ex indignatione et violentia. 
Quicquid susceperit tractandum id sedulo persequitur; in eo unici 
hseret defixus ; a proposito raro deflectens. In caeteris, a plerisque 
vatibus fortasse superatus; sed in eo genere, ad quod videtur a na- 


X.ECT. XLI.] THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. 


4tii> 

tura unice comparatus, nimirum, vi, pondere, impetu, granditate, ne¬ 
mo unquam eum superavit. 7 The same learned writer compares 
Isaiah to Homer, Jeremiah to Simonides, and Ezekiel to Aeschylus. 
Most of the book of Isaiah is strictly poetical; of Jeremiah and 
Ezekiel, not above one half can be held to belong to poetry. 
Among the minor prophets, Hosea, Joel, Micah, Habakkuk, and es¬ 
pecially Nahum, are distinguished for poetical spirit. In the pro¬ 
phecies of Daniel and Jonah, there is no poetry. 

It only now remains to speak of the book of Job, with which I 
shall conclude. It is known to be extremely ancient; generally re¬ 
puted the most ancient of all the poetical books; the author uncer¬ 
tain. It is remarkable, that this book has no connexion with the 
affairs or manners of the Jews or Hebrews. The scene is laid in 
the land of Uz, or Idumaea, which is a part of Arabia; and the 
imagery employed is generally of a different kind, from what I before 
showed to be peculiar to the Hebrew poets. We meet with no al¬ 
lusions to the great events of sacred history, to the religious rites of 
the Jews, to Lebanon or to Carmel, or any of the peculiarities of 
t he climate of Judaea. We find few comparisons founded on rivers 
or torrents; these were not familiar objects in Arabia. But the 
longest comparison that occurs in the book, is to an object frequent 
and well known in that region, a brook that fails in the season of heat, 
and disappoints the expectation of the traveller. 

The poetry, however, of the book of Job, is not only equal to 
that of any other of the sacred writings, but is superior to them all, 
except those of Isaiah alone. As Isaiah is the most sublime, David 
the most pleasing and tender, so Job is the most descriptive, of all 
the inspired poets. A peculiar glow of fancy, and strength of des¬ 
cription, characterize the author. No writer whatever abounds so 
much in metaphors. He may be said not to describe, but to render 
visible, whatever he treats of. A variety of instances might be given. 
Let us remark only those strong and lively colours, with which, in 
the following passages taken from the 18th and 20th chapters of his 
book, he paints the condition of the wicked; observe how rapidly 
his figures rise before us; and what a deep impression, at the same 
time, they leave on the imagination. ( Knowest thou not this of old, 
since man was placed upon the earth, that the triumphing of the 
wffcked is short, and the joy of the hypocrite but for a moment? 
Though his excellency mount up to the heavens, and his head reach 
the clouds, yet he shall perish for ever. He shall fly away as a dream, 
and shall not be found; yea, he shall be-chased away as a vision 
of the night. The eye also which saw him, shall see him no more ; 
they which have seen him shall say, Where is he?—He shall suck 
the poison of asps; the viper’s tongue shall slay him. In the ful¬ 
ness of his sufficiency, he shall be in straits ; every hand shall come 
upon him. He shall flee from the iron weapon, and the bow of steel 
shall strike him through. All darkness shall be hid in his secret pla¬ 
ces. A fire not blown shall consume him. The heaven shall re¬ 
veal his iniquity, and the earth shall rise up against him. The in¬ 
crease of his house shall depart. His goods shall flow away in the 


470 


QUESTIONS. | ll€t. sli. 

wrath. The light of the wicked shall be put out; the light 
shall be dark in his tabernacle. The steps of his strength shall be 
straitened, and his own counsel shall cast him down. For he is cast 
into a net, by his own feet. He walketh upon a snare. Terrors 
shall make him afraid on every side; and the robber shall prevail 
against him. Brimstone shall be scattered upon his habitation. His 
remembrance shall perish from the earth, and he shall have no name 
m the street. He shall be driven from light into darkness. They 
that come after him shall be astonished at his day. He shall drink 
oi the wrath of the Almighty. 5 


QUESTIONS. 


Among the various kinds of poetry, 
which we are at present employed in 
examining, what justly deserves a 
place? With what view alone, do the 
sacred books afford a curious object of 
criticism? What do they display; and 
what exhibit ? In what view do they 
give rise to discussion of another kind? 
hut what, at present, is our business; 
and what must needs give pleasure ? 
What treatise ought to be particularly 
perused; and of it, what is observed ? In 
this lecture, what course is consequently 
pursued? In showing what., need not 
many words be spent? How is this il¬ 
lustrated ? What is there no reason to 
doubt ? What has this occasioned ? 
Taking the Old Testament, in our own 
translation, what do we find ? How is 
this remark illustrated ? To show what 
is this sufficient; and afterwards, what 
shall be shown ? What may it be pro¬ 
per, in passing, to remark? What illus¬ 
tration of this remark is given ? What 
evidence have we, that music and 
poetry were cultivated among the He¬ 
brews, from the earliest times ? Of the 
general construction of Hebrew poetry, 
what is remarked? In what does it con- 
sist ? W hat is done in the first member 
of the period; and also in the second ? 
What instance, to illustrate this form 
of Hebrew poetry, is given? To this 
form of composition, what is owing; 
and why ? From what is the origin of 
this form of composition among the He¬ 
brews, to be deduced? With what were 
they accompanied; and by whom were 
they performed? To illustrate this, 
what instances are given? In this 
manner, their poetry, when set to 
music, naturally divided itself into 


what? Whence, what probably deri¬ 
ved its origin ? In the book of Ezra, 
what are we expressly told; and of 
some of David’s Psalms, what is ob¬ 
served ? Repeat the remarks made on 
the 24th Psalm, to illustrate this re¬ 
mark. Why does our author notice this 
instance? The method of composition 
which has been explained, being uni¬ 
versally introduced into the hymns of 
the Jews, what was the consequence? 
But of* this mode, what is observed ? 
Hence, where do we find it prevailing; 
and what instance is given ? Of this 
form of writing, what is remarked ? In¬ 
dependently of this peculiar mode of 
construction, by what is the sacred 
poetry distinguished ? What are its two 
most remarkable characters? What 
might one at first imagine? But how do 
they prevent this effect ? To what is 
their poetry indebted for much of its 
sublimity ? How might all writers, who 
attempt the sublime, profit much ; and 
why ? When is the mind most affected 
by any great idea; and what is the ef¬ 
fect of attempting to prolong the im¬ 
pression ? Of most of the ancient ori¬ 
ginal poets, what is observed ; and of 
what were the superfluities and excre¬ 
scences of style, the result ? With what 
do the sacred books more particularly 
abound, than any other writings ? W T hv 
is it proper to dwell a little upon this ar¬ 
ticle? What figures there, are particu¬ 
larly frequent ? In order to do justice 
to these, what is necessary ? In order 
to do what, is some attention of this 
kind requisite; and why ? Pursuing 
this course, what shall we find ? Of 
natural objects, what is observed; and 
what suo-gest to them many beautiful 













EECT. XU.] 


QUESTIONS. 


470 a 


figures? But in order to relish their 
figures of this kind, of what must we 
take notice ? Of this remark, what il¬ 
lustration is given? Again, as Judea 
was a liilly country, to what, during 
the rainy months, was it exposed? 
Hence, the frequent allusions to what; 
and hence to what are great calamities 
frequently compared ? Repeat the pas¬ 
sage here introduced from the Psalms. 
W hich were the two most remarkable 
mountains of the country; and lor 
what were they respectively noted ? 
Hence, how are they, with the greatest 
propriety, employed ? Repeat the illus¬ 
trations that follow. Under this head, 
what is farther to be remarked? Of 
earthquakes, tempests, and thunder and 
lightning, what is observed? How does 
Isaiah describe the earth? In those 
circumstances of terror, with which an 
appearance of the almighty is descri¬ 
bed, from what, is it probable, the 
figures were taken? Repeat the pas¬ 
sage. 

Besides the natural objects of their 
own country, what did the Hebrews 
frequently employ as grounds of im¬ 
agery? With what were they chiefly 
occupied; and in what estimation were 
these held ? As they were little addict¬ 
ed to commerce, and separated from 
the rest of the world by their laws and 
their religion, what was the conse¬ 
quence? Hence, as a matter of course, 
what allusions flowed ? Hence, also, 
what images were employed? To dis¬ 
relish such images is the effect of what? 
Of Homer, what is here observed? 
Repeat the passage here introduced 
from Isaiah illustrative of this remark. 
To what, also, do w r e frequently find 
figurative allusions? What instances 
are mentioned ? What did the religion 
of the Hebrews include ? Of what was 
it full: and with what was it connect¬ 
ed? Hence, what followed ? From all 
this, what results ? Whence is it copied; 
and what advantage has it ? In read¬ 
ing their works, where do we find our¬ 
selves; what are ever rising in our 
view ; and what constantly pass in dif¬ 
ferent forms before us ? Of the compari¬ 
sons employed by the sacred poets, 
what is observed ? In this respect, over 
whom have they an advantage; and 
how does this appear? To illustrate this 
remark, what fine comparison is intro¬ 
duced? Repeat it; and of it. what is 
BY 


observed? What other figure is also 
frequently found in Scripture ? When 
formerly treating of this figure, what 
was done ? Of the parables of the pro¬ 
phetical writings, what is observed ? 
What poetical figure is it, which, be¬ 
yond all others, elevates the style of 
Scripture? How is this fully illustrated? 
W hat is the general remark on the 
poetical books of the Old Testament? 
From what is it extremely different; 
and what is it? How are the scenes 
represented; and how is this illustra¬ 
ted ? Alter these remarks on the poetry 
of the Scriptures in general, with what 
is this dissertation concluded? What 
are the several kinds of poetical com¬ 
position which w r e find in Scripture ? Of 
didactic poetry,, what is the principal 
instance ? Of the nine first chapters of* 
that book, what is observed ; and what 
is said of the rest ? W hat other parts 
of* Scripture likewise come under this 
head? Of elegiac poetry, what beauti¬ 
ful specimens occur in Scripture ? 
Which of the Psalms is, in the highest 
degree, tender and plaintive? But which 
is the most regular and perfect elegiac 
composition in the Scriptures, and per¬ 
haps that was ever written ? Of this 
poem, what is observed? What does 
the song of Solomon afford us ? Consi¬ 
dered with respect to its spiritual mean¬ 
ing, what is it; and what is it in its 
form ? Suitably to this form, of what is 
it full ? In what poetry does the Old 
Testament abound? How is this re¬ 
mark illustrated ? In the Psalms, what 
do we find ? From these instances, what 
clearly appears ? Of the different com¬ 
posers of the sacred books, what is ob¬ 
served ? Who are the most eminent of 
the sacred poets ? As the compositions 
of David are chiefly of the lyric kind, 
what is the consequence ; and in what 
does he excel ? In his Psalms, what are 
found ; but to whom does he yield ; and 
in what ? For what is David chiefly 
distinguished? In what Psalms does 
he touch us most? Ol' Isaiah, what is 
observed ? In what is this abundantly 
visible; and what is a material circum¬ 
stance? What is his reigning charac¬ 
ter; and of it, what is remarked? 
What does he possess; and what pre¬ 
vails in his book, to a greater extent, 
than in any other book of the propheti¬ 
cal writings? How do Isaiah and Jere¬ 
miah compare: and of Ezekiel, what 



470 h 


EPIC POETRY 


[lect. xlu. 


is observed? What comparisons does 
Bishop Lowth make? Of most of the 
books of Isaiah, and of Jeremiah and 
Ezekiel, what is farther observed? 
Among the minor poets, who are dis¬ 
tinguished for poetical spirit; and in 
whose prophecies is there no poetry? 
Of what does it still remain for us to 
speak ? What are the general remarks 
made upon it ? Of the ^poetry of the 
book of Job, what is observed ? How is 
this illustrated ? Repeat the passage 
with which these remarks are closed. 


ANALYSIS. 

1. Introductory remarks. 

2. Music and poetry very early cultivated. 

3. Its construction peculiar to itself. 

4. Its remarkable conciseness and strength. 

a. The boldness of its figures. 

b. Natural objects figuratively used. 

c. Awful and terrible imagery introduced. 

d. Religious rights employed. 

e. Their imagery,expressive and natural. 

f. Their comparisons short and pointed. 
G. Allegory of frequent use. 

h. Personification their boldest figure. 

5. The different kinds of Hebrew poetry. 

6. Distinguished Hebrew poets. 
a. The book of Job, 


LECTURE XLII* 

EPIC POETRY. 

It now remains to treat of the two highest kinds of poetical wri¬ 
ting, the epic and the dramatic. I begin with the epic. This lec¬ 
ture shall be employed upon the general principles of that species of 
composition : after which, I shall take a view of the character and 
genius of the most celebrated epic poets. 

The epic poem is universally allowed to be, of all poetical works, 
the most dignified, and, at the same time, the most difficult in execu¬ 
tion. To contrive a story which shall please and interest all read¬ 
ers, by being at once entertaining, important, and instructive; to 
fill it with suitable incidents; to enliven it with a variety of charac¬ 
ters and of descriptions ; and, throughout a long work, to maintain 
that propriety of sentiment, and that elevation of style, which the 
epic character requires, is unquestionably the highest effort of poeti¬ 
cal genius. Hence so very few have succeeded in the attempt, that 
strict critics will hardly allow any other poems to bear the name of 
epic, except the Iliad and the iEneid. 

There is no subject, it must be confessed, on which critics have 
displayed more pedantry than on this. By tedious disquisitions, 
founded on a servile submission to authority, they have given such 
an air of mystery to a plain subject, as to render it difficult for an 
ordinary reader to conceive what an epic poem is. By Bossu’s de¬ 
finition, it is a discourse invented by art, purely to form the manners 
of men, by means of instructions disguised under the allegory of some 
important action which is related in verse. This definition would 
suit several of M sop’s fables, if they were somewhat extended, and 
put into verse ; and accordingly, to illustrate his definition, the critic 
draws a parallel, in form, between the construction of one of ^Esop’s 
fables and the plan of Homer’s Iliad. The first thing, says he, which 
either a writer of fables, or of heroic poems, does, is to choose some 
maxim or point of morality; to inculcate which, is to be the design 
of his work. Next, he invents a general story, or a series of facts, 
without any names, such as he judges will be most proper for illustra- 





EECT. xm.] 


EPIC POETRY. 


471 


ting his intended moral. Lastly, he particularizes his story ; that; 
is, if he be a fabulist, he introduces his dog, his sheep, and his wolf; 
or if he be an epic poet, he looks out in ancient history for some 
proper names of heroes to give to his actors; and then his plan is 
completed. 

This is one of the most frigid and absurd ideas that ever entered 
into the mind of a critic. Homer, he says, saw the Grecians divided 
into a great number of independent states; but very often obliged 
to unite into one body against their common enemies. The most 
useful instruction which he could give them in this situation, was, 
that a misunderstanding between princes is the ruin of the common 
cause. In order to enforce this instruction, he contrived, in his own 
mind, such a general story as this. Several princes join in a con¬ 
federacy against their enemy. The prince who was chosen as the 
leader of the rest, affronts one of the most valiant of the confederates, 
who thereupon withdraws himself, and refuses to take part in the 
common enterprise. Great misfortunes are the consequence of this 
division; till at length, both parties having suffered by the quarrel, 
the offended prince forgets his displeasure and is reconciled to the 
leader ; and union being once restored, there ensues complete vic¬ 
tory over their enemies. Upon this general plan of his fable, adds 
Bossu, it was of no great consequence, whether, in filling it up, Ho¬ 
mer had employed the names of beasts, like iEsop, or of men. He 
would have been equally instructive either way. But as he rather 
fancied to write of heroes, he pitched upon the wall of Troy for the 
scene of his fable; he feigned such an action to happen there; he 
gave the name of Agamemnon to the common leader; that of 
Achilles to the offended prince ; and so the Iliad arose. 

He that can believe Homer to have proceeded in this manner, 
may believe any thing. One may pronounce, with great certainty, 
that an author who should compose according to such a plan ; who 
should arrange all the subject in his own mind, with a view to the 
moral, before he had ever thought of the personages who were to 
be the actors, might write, perhaps, useful fables for children ; but 
as to an epic poem, if he adventured to think of one, it would be 
such as would find few readers. No person of any taste can enter¬ 
tain a doubt, that the first objects which strike an epic poet are, the 
hero whom he is to celebrate, and the action, or story, which is to 
be the ground-work of his poem. He does not sit down, like a phi¬ 
losopher, to form the plan of a treatise of morality. His genius is 
fired by some great enterprise, which, to him, appears noble and 
interesting: and which, therefore, he pitches upon, as worthy of 
being celebrated in the highest strain of poetry. There is no subject 
of this kind, but will always afford some general moral instruction, 
arising from it naturally. The instruction which Bossu points out, 
is certainly suggested by the Iliad; and there is another which 
arises as naturally, and may just as well be assigned for the moral of 
that poem; namely, that providence avenges those who have suffer¬ 
ed injustice; but that when they allow their resentment to carry 
them too far, it brings misfortunes on themselves. The subject 


472 


EPIC POETRY. 


[lect. xlij. 


of the poem is the wrath of Achilles, caused by the injustice of 
Agamemnon. Jupiter avenges Achilles by giving success to the 
Trojans against Agamemnon; but by continuing obstinate in his 
resentment, Achilles loses his beloved friend Patroclus. 

The plain account of the nature of an epic poem is, the recital 
of some illustrious enterprise in a poetical form This is as exact 
a definition, as there is any occasion for on this subject. It compre¬ 
hends several other poems besides the Iliad of Homer, the iEneid 
of Virgil, and the Jerusalem of Tasso; which are, perhaps, the 
three most regular and complete epic works that ever were compo¬ 
sed. But to exclude all poems from the epic class, which are not 
formed exactly upon the same model as these, is the pedantry of 
criticism. We can give exact definitions and descriptions of mine¬ 
rals, plants, and animals; and can arrange them with precision, un¬ 
der the different classes to which they belong, because nature affords 
a visible unvarying standard, to which we refer them. But with 
regard to works of taste and imagination, where nature has fixed no 
standard, but leaves scope for beauties of many different kinds, it is 
absurd to attempt defining and limiting them with the same preci¬ 
sion. Criticism, when employed in such attempts, degenerates into 
trifling questions about words and names only. I therefore have 
no scruple to class such poems as Milton’s Paradise Lost, Lucan’s 
Pharsalia, Statius’s Thebaid, Ossian’s Fingal andTemora, Camoens’ 
Lusiad, Voltaire’s Henriade, Cambray’s Telemachus, Glover’s Le¬ 
onidas, Wilkie’s Epigoniad, under the same species of composition 
with the Iliad and the AEneid ; though some of them approach much 
nearer than others to the perfection of these celebrated works. 
They are, undoubtedly, all epic; that is, poetical recitals of great ad¬ 
ventures ; which is all that is meant by this denomination of poetry. 

Though I cannot, by any means, allow, that it is the essence of 
an epic poem to be wholly an allegory, or a fable contrived to illus¬ 
trate some moral truth, yet it is certain, that no poetry is of a more 
moral nature than this. Its effect in promoting virtue, is not to be 
measured by any one maxim, or instruction, which results from the 
whole story, like the moral of one of AEsop’s fables. This is a 
poor and trivial view of the advantage to be derived from perusing 
a long epic work, that at the end we shall be able to gather from it 
some common-place morality. Its effect arises from the impression 
which the parts of the poem separately, as well as the whole taken 
together, make upon the mind of the reader; from the great exam¬ 
ples which it sets before us, and the high sentiments with which it 
warms our hearts. The end which it proposes is to extend our 
ideas of human perfection: or, in other words, to excite admiration. 
Now this can be accomplished only by proper representations of he¬ 
roic deeds and virtuous characters. For high virtue is the object, 
which all mankind are formed to admire ; and,therefore, epic poems 
are, and must be, favourable to the cause of virtue. Valour, truth, 
justice, fidelity, friendship, piety, magnanimity, are the objects 
which, in the course of such compositions, are presented to our minds, 
under the most splendid and honourable colours. In behalf of virtu- 


LECT. XLII.j 


EPIC POETRY. 


473 


ous personages, our affections are engaged; in their designs, and 
their distresses, we are interested ; the generous and public affec¬ 
tions are awakened ; the mind is purified from sensual and mean 
pursuits, and accustomed to take part in great heroic enterprises. 
It is indeed no small testimony in honour of virtue, that several of 
the most refined and elegant entertainments of mankind, such as 
that species of poetical composition which we now consider, must 
be grounded on moral sentiments and impressions. This is a testi¬ 
mony of such weight, that, were it in the power of skeptical philo¬ 
sophers to weaken the force of those reasonings, which establish 
the essential distinctions between vice and virtue, the writings of 
epic poets alone were sufficient to refute their false philosophy; 
showing by that appeal which they constantly make to the feelings 
of mankind in favour of virtue, that the foundations of it are laid 
deep and strong in human nature. 

The general strain and spirit of epic composition, sufficiently 
mark its distinction from the other kinds of poetry. In pastoral 
writing, the reigning idea is innocence and tranquillity. Compas¬ 
sion is the great object of tragedy; ridicule, the province of comedy. 
The predominant character of the epic is, admiration excited by 
heroic actions. It is sufficiently distinguished from history, both 
by its poetical form, and the liberty of fiction which it assumes. 
It is a more calm composition than tragedy. It admits, nay requires, 
the pathetic and the violent, on particular occasions ; but the pa¬ 
thetic is not expected to be its general character. It requires, 
more than any other species of poetry, a grave, equal, and support¬ 
ed dignity. It takes in a greater compass of time and action, than 
dramatic writing admits; and thereby allows a more full display 
of characters. Dramatic writings display characters chiefly by 
means of sentiments and passions; epic poetry, chiefly by means 
of actions. The emotions, therefore, which it raises, are not so 
violent, but they are more prolonged. These are the general 
characteristics of this species of composition But, in order to give 
a more particular and critical view of it, let us consider the epic 
poem under three heads; first, with respect to the subject, or action; 
secondly, with respect to the actors, or characters; and lastly, with 
respect to the narration of the poet. 

The action, or subject of the epic poem, must have three pro¬ 
perties ; it must be one; it must be great; it must be interesting. 

First, it must be one action, or enterprise, which the poet chooses 
for his subject. I have frequently had occasion to remark the 
importance of unity, in many kinds of composition, in order to 
make a full and strong impression upon the mind. With the high¬ 
est reason, Aristotle insists upon this, as essential to epic poetry ; 
and it is, indeed, the most material of all his rules respecting it. 
For it is certain, that, in the recital of heroic adventures, several 
scattered and independent facts can never affect a reader so deeply, 
nor engage his attention so strongly, as a tale that is one and con¬ 
nected. where the several incidents hang upon one another, and 

60 


474 


EPIC POETRY. 


[LECT. XLI1. 


are all made to conspire for the accomplishment of one end. In a 
regular epic, the more sensible this unity is rendered to the ima¬ 
gination, the better will be the effect; and, for this reason, as Aris¬ 
totle has observed, it is not sufficient for the poet to confine himself 
to the actions of one man, or to those which happened during a 
certain period of time; but the unity must lie in the subject itself: 
and arise from all the parts combining into one whole. 

In all the great epic poems, unity of action is sufficiently appa¬ 
rent. Virgil, for instance, has chosen for his subject, the establish¬ 
ment of iEneas in Italy. From the beginning to the end of the 
poem, this object is ever in our view, and links all the parts of it 
together with full connexion. The unity of the Odyssey is of the 
same nature ; the return and re-establishment of Ulysses in his own 
country. The subject of Tasso, is the recovery of Jerusalem from 
the infidels ; that of Milton, the expulsion of our first parents from 
Paradise ; and both of them are unexceptionable in the unity of the 
story The professed subject of the Iliad, is the anger of Achilles, 
with the consequences which it produced. The Greeks carry on 
niany unsuccessful engagements against the Trojans, as long as 
they are deprived of the assistance of Achilles. Upon his bein^ 
appeased and reconciled to Agamemnon, victory follows, and the 
poem closes. It must be owned, however, that the unity, or con¬ 
necting principle, is not quite so sensible to the imagination here 
as in the ^Eneid. For, throughout many books of the Iliad 
Achilles is out of sight; he is lost in inaction, and the fancy termi ¬ 
nates on no other object, than the success of the two armies whom 
we see contending in war. 

The unity of the epic action is not to be so strictly interpreted, 
as if it excluded all episodes, or subordinate actions. It is neces¬ 
sary to observe here, that the term episode is employed by Aris¬ 
totle, m a different sense from what we now give to it. It was a 
term originally applied to dramatic poetry, and thence transferred 
to epic; and by episodes,in an epic poem, it should seem that Aris¬ 
totle understood the extension of the general fable, or plan of the 
poem, into all its circumstances. What his meaning was, is indeed 
not very clear ; and this obscurity has occasioned much altercation 
among critical writers. Bossu. in particular, is so perplexed upon 
this subject, as to be almost unintelligible. But, dismissing so 
iruitless a controversy, what we now understand by episodes/ are 
certain actions, or incidents, introduced into the narration, connect- 
ed with the principal action, yet not of such importance as to destroy, 
if they had been omitted, the main subject of the poem. Of this 
nature are the interview of Hector with Andromache, in the Iliad • 
the story of Cacus, and that ofNisus and Euryalus, in the ^Eneid* 
the adventures of Tancred with Erminia and Clorinda,in the Jeru- 
salem; and the prospect of his descendants exhibited to Adam, in 
the last books of Paradise Lost. 

Such episodes as these, are not only permitted to an epic poet, 
but, provided they be properly executed, are great ornaments to 
his work. The rules regarding them are the following- 


LECT. XLII.] 


EPIC POETRY. 


475 


First, they must be naturally introduced ; they must have a suf¬ 
ficient connexion with the subject of the poem ; they must seem in¬ 
ferior parts that belong to it; not mere appendages stuck to it. The 
episode of Olinda and Sophronia, in the second book of Tasso’s Jeru¬ 
salem, is faulty, by transgressing this rule. It is too much detached 
from the rest of the work : and, being introduced so near the opening 
of the poem, misleads the reader into an expectation that it is to be of 
some future consequence ; whereas, it proves to be connected with 
nothing that follows. In proportion as any episode is slightly related 
to the main subject, it. should always be the shorter. The passion 
of Dido in the iEneid, and the snares of Armida in the Jerusalem, 
which are expanded so fully in these poems, cannot with propriety 
be called episodes. They are constituent parts of the work, and 
form a considerable share of the intrigue of the poem. 

In the next place, episodes ought to present to us objects of a 
different kind from those which go before, and those which follow in 
the course of the poem. For, it is principally for the sake of va¬ 
riety, that episodes are introduced into an epic composition. In so 
long a work, they tend to diversify the subject, and to relieve the 
reader, by shifting the scene. In the midst of combats, therefore, 
an episode of the martial kind would be out of place; whereas, 
Hector’s visit to Andromache in the Iliad, and Erminia’s adventure 
with the shepherd in the seventh book of the Jerusalem, afford us a 
well-judged and pleasing retreat from camps and battles. 

Lastly, as an episode is a professed embellishment, it ought to 
be particularly elegant and well finished; and, accordingly,it is, 
for the most part, in pieces of this kind, that poets put forth their 
strength. The episodes of Teribazus and Ariana, in Leonidas, and 
of the death of Hercules, in the Epigoniad, are the two greatest 
beauties in these poems. 

The unity of the epic action necessarily supposes, that the action 
be entire and complete; that is, as Aristotle well expresses it, that 
it have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Either by relating the 
whole, in his own person, or by introducing some of his actors to 
relate what had passed before the opening of the poem, the author 
must always contrive to give us full information of every thing that 
belongs to his subject; he must not leave our curiosity in any ar¬ 
ticle ungratified; he must bring us precisely to the accomplishment 
of his plan, and then conclude. 

The second property of the epic action is, that it be great; that 
it have sufficient splendour and importance, both to fix our atten¬ 
tion, and to justify the magnificent apparatus which the poet bestows 
upon it. This is so evidently requisite as not to require illustra¬ 
tion : and, indeed, hardly any who have attempted epic poetry, 
have failed in choosing some subject sufficiently important, either 
by the nature of the action, or by the fame of the personages con- 

Ce It contributes to the grandeur of the epic subject, that it be not of 
a modern date, nor fall within any period of history with which we 
are intimately acquainted. Both Lucan and Voltaire have, in the 


EPIC POETRY. 


|_LECT. XLIX- 


476 

choice of their subjects, transgressed this rule, and they have, upon 
that account, succeeded worse. Antiquity is favourable to those 
high and august ideas, which epic poetry is designed to raise. It 
tends to aggrandize, in our imagination, both persons and events : 
and what is still more material, it allows the poet the liberty of 
adorning his subject by means of fiction. Whereas, as soon as he 
comes within the verge of real and authenticated history, this liberty 
is abridged. He must either confine himself wholly, as Lucan has 
done, to strict historical truth, at the expense of rendering his story 
jejune ; or if he goes beyond it, like Voltaire in his Henriade, this 
disadvantage follows, that, in well-known events, the true and the 
fictitious parts of the plan do not naturally mingle and incorporate 
with each other. These observations cannot be applied to dramatic 
writing; where the personages are exhibited to us, not so much 
that we may admire, as that we may love or pity them. Such 
passions are much more consistent with the familiar historical 
knowledge of the persons who are to be the objects of them; and 
even require them to be displayed in the light, and with the failings, 
of ordinary men. Modern and well-known history, therefore, may 
furnish very proper materials for tragedy. But for epic poetry, 
where heroism is the ground-work, and where the object in view 
is to excite admiration, ancient or traditionary history is assuredly 
the safest region. There the author may lay hold on names, and 
characters, and events, not wholly unknown, on which to build his 
story, while, at the same time, by reason of the distance of the pe¬ 
riod, or of the remoteness of the scene, sufficient license is left him 
for fiction and invention. 

The third property required in the epic poem is, that it be inter¬ 
esting. It is not sufficient for this purpose that it be great. For 
deeds of mere valour, how heroic soever, may prove cold and tire¬ 
some. Much will depend on the happy choice of some subject, 
which shall, by its nature, interest the public ; as when the poet se¬ 
lects for his hero, one who is the founder, or the deliverer, or the 
favourite of his nation; or when he writes of achievements that 
have been highly celebrated, or have been connected with important 
consequences to any public cause. Most of the great epic poems 
are abundantly fortunate in this respect, and must have been very 
interesting to those ages and countries in which they were composed, 
But the chief circumstance which renders an epic poem interest¬ 
ing, and which tends to interest, not one age or country alone, but 
all readers, is the skilful conduct of the author in the management 
of his subject. He must so contrive his plan, as that it shall com¬ 
prehend many affecting incidents. He must not dazzle us perpetu¬ 
ally with valiant achievements; for all readers tire of constant fight¬ 
ing and battles; but he must study to touch our hearts. He may 
sometimes be awful and august; he must often be tender and pathet¬ 
ic ; he must give us gentle and pleasing scenes of love, friendship, 
and affection. The more an epic poem abounds with situations 
which awaken the feelings of humanity, the more interesting it is 


EPIC POETRY. 


JLECT. XLII.j 


477 


and these form always, the favourite passages of the work. 1 know 
no epic poets so happy in this respect as Virgil and Tasso. 

Much, too, depends on the characters of the heroes, for rendering 
the poem interesting; that they be such as shall strongly attach 
the readers, and make them take part in the dangers which the he¬ 
roes encounter. These dangers, or obstacles, form what is called 
the nodus, or the intrigue of the epic poem; in the judicious con¬ 
duct of which consists much of the poet’s art. He must rouse our 
attention, by a prospect of the difficulties which seem to threaten 
disappointment to the enterprise of his favourite personages; he 
must make these difficulties grow and thicken upon us by degrees ; 
till, after having kept us, for some time, in a state of agitation and sus¬ 
pense, he paves the way, by a proper preparation of incidents, for 
the winding up of the plot, in a natural and probable manner. It is 
plain, that every tale which is designed to engage attention, must 
be conducted on a plan of this sort. 

A question has been moved, whether the nature of the epic poem 
does not require that it should always end successfully ? Most critics 
are inclined to think, that a successful issue is the most proper; and 
they appear to have reason on their side. An unhappy conclusion 
depresses the mind, and is opposite to the elevating emotions which 
belong to this species of poetry. Terror and compassion are the 
proper subjects of tragedy ; but as the epic poem is of larger com¬ 
pass and extent, it were too much, if, after the difficulties and trou¬ 
bles which commonly abound in the progress of the poem, the au¬ 
thor should bring them all at last to an unfortunate issue. Accord¬ 
ingly, the general practice of epic poets is on the side of a prosper¬ 
ous conclusion ; not, however, without some exceptions. For two 
authors of great name, Lucan and Milton, have held a contrary 
course; the one concluding with the subversion of the Roman lib¬ 
erty ; the other, with the expulsion of man from Paradise. 

With regard to the time or duration of the epic action, no precise 
boundaries can be ascertained. A considerable extent is always al¬ 
lowed to it, as it does not necessarily depend on those violent pas¬ 
sions which can be supposed to have only a short continuance. The 
Iliad, which is formed upon the anger of Achilles, has, with propri¬ 
ety, the shortest duration of any of the great epic poems. Accord¬ 
ing to Bossu,the action lasts no longer than forty-seven days. The 
action of the Odyssey, computed from the taking of Troy to the 
peace of Ithaca, extends to eight years and a half; and the action of 
the iEneid, computed in the same way, from the taking of Troy to 
the death of Turnus, includes about six years. But if we measure 
the period only of the poet’s own narration, or compute from the 
time in which the hero makes his first appearance to the conclusion, 
the duration of both these last poems is brought within a much 
smaller compass. The Odyssey, beginning with Ulysses in the isl¬ 
and of Calypso, comprehends fifty-eight days only; and the iEneid, 
beginning with the storm, which throws iEneas upon the coast ot 
Africa, is reckoned to include, at the most, a year and some months. 

Having thus treated of the epic action, or the subject of the 

Z 


EPIC POETRY. 


478 


[lect. xLir* 


poem, I proceed next to make some observations on the actors or 
personages. 

As it is the business of an epic poet to copy after nature, and to 
form a probable and interesting tale, he must study to give all his per¬ 
sonages proper and well-supported characters, such as display the 
features of human nature. This is what Aristotle calls giving man¬ 
ners to the poem. It is by no means necessary, that all his actors 
be morally good ; imperfect, nay, vicious characters, may find a 
proper place ; though the nature of epic poetry seems to require, 
that the principal figures exhibited should be such as tend to raise 
admiration and love, rather than hatred or contempt. But whatever 
the character be which a poet gives to any of his actors, he must 
take care to preserve it uniform, and consistent with itself. Every¬ 
thing which that person says, or does, must be suited to it, and must 
serve to distinguish him from any other. 

Poetic characters may be divided into two kinds, general and 
particular. General characters are, such as are wise, brave, 
virtuous, without any farther distinction. Particular characters 
express the species of bravery, of wisdom, of virtue, for which any 
one is eminent. They exhibit the peculiar features which distin¬ 
guish one individual from another, which mark the difference of the 
same moral quality in different men, according as it is combined with 
other dispositions in their temper. In drawing such particular 
characters, genius is chiefly exerted. How far each of the three 
great epic poets have distinguished themselves in this part of com¬ 
position, 1 shall have occasion afterwards to show, when I come to 
make remarks upon their works. It is sufficient now to mention, 
that it is in this part Homer has principally excelled; Tasso has 
come the nearest to Homer; and Virgil has been the most deficient. 

It has been the practice of all epic poets, to select some one per¬ 
sonage, whom they distinguish above all the rest, and make the hero 
of the tale. This is considered as essential to epic composition, 
and is attended with several advantages. It renders the unity of the 
subject more sensible, when there is one principal figure, to which, 
as to a centre, all the rest refer. It tends to interest us more in the 
enterprise which is carried on; and it gives the poet an opportunity 
of exerting his talents for adorning and displaying one character, 
with peculiar splendour. It has been asked, Who then is the hero 
of Paradise Lost ? The devil, it has been answered by some critics; 
and, in consequence of this idea, much ridicule and censure has 
been thrown upon Milton. But they have mistaken that author’s 
intention,by proceeding upon a supposition, that, in the conclusion 
of the poem, the hero must needs be triumphant. Whereas Milton 
followed a different plan, and has given a tragic conclusion to a po¬ 
em, otherwise epic in its form. For Adam is undoubtedly his hero; 
that is, the capital and most interesting figure in his poem. 

Besides human actors, there are personages of another kind, that 
usually occupy no small place in epic poetry; I mean the gods, or 
supernatural beings. This brings us to the consideration of what is 
called the machinery of the epic poem; the most nice and difficult 


LJECT. XLII.j 


EPIC POETRY. 


47U 


part of the subject. Critics appear to me to have gone to extremes 
on both sides. Almost all the French critics decide in favour of 
machinery, as essential to the constitution of an epic poem. They 
quote that sentence of Petronius Arbiter, as if it were an oracle, 
‘per ambages, Deorumque ministeria, praecipitandus est liber spirit- 
us and hold that though a poem had every other requisite that 
could be demanded, yet it could not be ranked in the epic class, 
unless the main action was carried on by the intervention of the 
gods. This decision seems to he founded on no principle or reason 
whatever, unless a superstitious reverence for the practice of Homel¬ 
and Virgil. These poets very properly embellished their story by 
the traditional tales and popular legends of their own country ; ac¬ 
cording to which, all the great transactions of the heroic times were 
intermixed with the fables of their deities. But does it thence fol¬ 
low, that in other countries, and other ages, where there is not the 
like advantage of current superstition, and popular credulity, epic 
poetry must be wholly confined to antiquated fictions and fairy tales ? 
Lucan has composed a very spirited poem, certainly of the epic 
kind, where neither gods nor supernatural beings are at all employ¬ 
ed. The author of Leonidas has made an attempt of the same kind, 
not without success; and beyond doubt, wherever a poet gives us 
a regular heroic story, well connected in its parts, adorned with 
characters, and supported with proper dignity and elevation, though 
his agents be every one of them human, he has fulfilled the chief 
requisites of this sort of composition, and has a just title to be class¬ 
ed with epic writers. 

But though I cannot admit that machinery is necessary or essen¬ 
tial to the epic plan, neither can I agree with some late critics of 
considerable name, who are for excluding it totally, as inconsistent 
wkh that probability and impression of reality which they think 
should reign in this kind of writing.* Mankind do not consider 
poetical writings with so philosophical an eye. They seek enter¬ 
tainment from them; and for the bulk of readers, indeed for almost 
all men, the marvellous has a great charm. It gratifies and fills the 
imagination, and gives room for many a striking and sublime de¬ 
scription. In epic poetry, in particular, where admiration and lofty 
ideas are supposed to reign, the marvellous and supernatural find, 
if any where, their proper place. They both enable the poet to 
aggrandize his subject, by means of those august and solemn objects 
which religion introduces into it; and they allow him to enlarge 
and diversify his plan, by comprehending within it heaven, and 
earth, and hell, men and invisible beings, and the whole circle of 
the universe. 

At the same time, in the use of this supernatural machinery, it be¬ 
comes a poet to be temperate and prudent He is not at liberty to 
invent what system of the marvellous he pleases. It must always 
have some foundation in popular belief. He must avail himself, in 
a decent manner, either of the religious faith, or the superstitious 


* See Elements of Criticism, ch. 22, 





4S0 


EPIC POETRY. 


[LECT. XLll* 


credulity of the country wherein he lives, or of which he writes, so 
as to give an air of probability to events which are most contrary 
to the common course of nature. Whatever machinery he em¬ 
ploys, he must take care not to overload us with it; not to with¬ 
draw human actions and manners too much from view, nor to ob¬ 
scure them under a cloud of incredible fictions. He must always 
remember, that his chief business is to relate to men, the actions and 
the exploits of men ; that it is by these principally he is to interest 
us, and to touch our hearts ; and that if probability be altogether 
banished from his work, it can never make a deep or a lasting im ¬ 
pression. Indeed, I know nothing more difficult in epic poetry, 
than to adjust properly the mixture of the marvellous with the pro¬ 
bable ; so as to gratify and amuse us with the one, without sacrifi¬ 
cing the other. I need hardly observe, that these observations af¬ 
fect not the conduct of Milton’s work; whose plan being altogether 
theological, his supernatural beings form not the machinery, but 
are the principal actors in the poem. 

With regard to allegorical personages, fame, discord, love, and 
the like, it may be safely pronounced, that they form the worst 
machinery of any. In description they are sometimes allowa¬ 
ble, and may serve for embellishment; but they should never 
be permitted to bear any share in the action of the poem. For 
being plain and declared fictions, mere names of general ideas, to 
which even fancy cannot attribute any existence as persons, if they 
are introduced as mingling with human actors, an intolerable con¬ 
fusion of shadows and realities arises, and all consistency of action 
is utterly destroyed. 

In the narration of the poet, which is the last head that remains 
to be considered, it is not material, whether he relate the whole 
story in his own character, or introduce some of his personages to 
relate any part of the action that had passed before the poem opens. 
Homer follows the one method in his Iliad, and the other in his 
Odyssey. Virgil has, in this respect, imitated the conduct of the 
Odyssey; Tasso, that of the Iliad. The chief advantage which ari¬ 
ses from any of the actors being employed to relate part of the sto¬ 
ry, is, that it allows the poet, if he chooses it, to open with some in¬ 
teresting situation of affairs, informing us afterwards of what had 
passed before that period ; and gives him the greater liberty of 
spreading out such parts of the subject as he is inclined to dwell upon 
in person, and of comprehending the rest within a short recital. 
Where the subject is of great extent, and comprehends the transac¬ 
tions of several years, as in the Odyssey and the iEneid, this method 
therefore seems preferable. When the subject is of smaller compass, 
and shorter duration, as in the Iliad and the Jerusalem, the poet 
may, without disadvantage, relate the whole in his own person. 

In the proposition of the subject, the invocation of the muse, and 
other ceremonies of the introduction, poets may vary at their plea¬ 
sure. It is perfectly trifling to make these little formalities the object 
of precise rule, any farther, than that the subject of the work should 
always be cl early proposed, and without affected or unsuitable pomp 


LECT. XLII.j 


QUESTIONS, 


m 


For, according to Horace’s noted rule, no introduction should ever 
set out too high, or promise too much, lest the author should not fulfil 
the expectations he has raised. 

What is of most importance in the tenour of the narration is, that 
it be perspicuous, animated, and enriched with all the beauties of 
poetry. No sort of composition requires more strength, dignity, and 
fire, than the epic poem. It is the region within which we look for 
every thing that is sublime in description, tender in sentiment, and 
bold and lively in expression; and, therefore, though an author’s 
plan should be faultless, and his story ever so well conducted, yet, if 
he be feeble, or flat in style, destitute of affecting scenes, and defi¬ 
cient in poetical colouring, he can have no success. The ornaments 
which epic poetry admits, must all be of the grave and chaste kind. 
Nothing that is loose, ludicrous, or affected, finds any place there. 
All the objects which it presents ought to be either great, or tender, 
or pleasing. Descriptions of disgusting or shocking objects, should, 
as much as possible, be avoided; and, therefore, the fable of the 
Harpies, in the third book of the iEneid, and the allegory of Sin and 
Death, in the second book of Paradise Lost, had been better omitted 
in these celebrated poems. 


QUESTIONS. 


Of what does it now remain to treat? 
With which does our author begin? 
On what shall this lecture be employ¬ 
ed ? After which, what shall be done ? 
Of the epic poem, what is allowed ? 
What is, unquestionably, the highest 
effort of poetical genius ? Hence, what 
follows? On this subject, what have 
critics displayed? By tedious disquisi¬ 
tions, what have they done ? By Bos¬ 
ses definition, what is it ? Of this defi¬ 
nition, what is observed ? What does 
he say is the first thing which either a 
writer of fables, or of heroic poems, 
does? Next, what does he do? And 
lastly, what ? Of this idea, what is ob¬ 
served ? Repeat the whole account of 
the origin of the Iliad, according to 
Bossu. What is said of him who can 
believe Homer to have proceeded in 
this manner; and what may one, with 
great certainty, pronounce? Of what 
can no person of taste entertain a 
doubt ? How is this illustrated ? Be¬ 
sides the instruction which Bossu as¬ 
signs to the Iliad, what other may as 
naturally be considered the moral of 
that poem ? What is the subject of the 
poem ? How does Jupiter avenge 
Achilles; and what is the effect of 
Achilles’ continued obstinacy ? What 
js the plain account of the nature of an 


epic poem ? Of this definition, what is 
observed; and what does it compre¬ 
hend ? But what is the pedantry of cri¬ 
ticism ? With minerals, plants, and ani¬ 
mals, what can we do; and why ? But 
with regard to works of taste and ima 
gination, what is observed ? When em¬ 
ployed in such attempts, into what 
does criticism degenerate? To class 
what poems, therefore, with the Iliad 
and the iEneid, does our author not scru¬ 
ple? They are, undoubtedly, all of 
what character ? What cannot our au¬ 
thor allow; yet, what is certain ? Of 
its effect in promoting virtue, what is 
observed; and what, remark follows? 
From what does its effect arise ? What 
is the end which it proposes? How. 
only, can this be accomplished; and 
why ? What objects, in the course of 
such compositions, are presented to our 
minds, under the most honourable co¬ 
lours ; and. consequently, how are we 
affected? What is, indeed, no small 
testimony in honour of virtue ? Of the 
weight of this testimony, what is ob¬ 
served? What sufficiently mark its dis¬ 
tinction from other kinds of poetry? 
How is this remark illustrated ? By 
what is it sufficiently distinguished from 
history; and from tragedy ? What 
does it require ? How does it compare 







4b 1 ft 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect. xlji, 


with dramatic poetry ? But, in order to 
give a more particular and critical 
view of it, under what three heads 
shall we consider it ? What three pro¬ 
perties must the action, or subject of 
the epic poem, have ? To remark what, 
lias our author had frequent occasion? 
With the highest reason, on what does 
Aristotle insist; and why ? In a regu¬ 
lar epic, how will the effect be rendered 
more perfect; and for this reason, what 
lias Aristotle observed ? How is the re¬ 
mark fully illustrated, that in all the 
great epic poems, unity of action is 
sufficiently apparent ? What does not 
the unity of the epic exclude ? What 
is it necessary here to observe? To 
what was the term originally applied; 
and whence transferred? What did 
Aristotle understand by episodes, in 
an epic poem? What has been the 
effect of the obscurity of his meaning ? 
But, dismissing so fruitless a controver- 
sy, what do we now understand by 
them ? Of this nature, what examples 
are given ? Of such episodes as these, 
what is observed ? What is the first 
rule given, regarding them ? What 
episode is faulty, by transgressing this 
rule; and of it, what is remarked ? In 
proportion to what, should episodes al¬ 
ways be the shorter? What cannot, 
with propriety, be called episodes; and 
what are they? In the next place, 
what ought episodes to present to us; 
and why? In so long a work, what is 
their effect? What illustrations of this 
remark follow? What is the last direc¬ 
tion regarding the episode ; and what 
instances are mentioned ? What does 
the unity of the epic action necessarily 
suppose ? By this, what is meant ? 

What is the second property of the 
epic action? Of this, w T hat is observed ? 
What contributes to the grandeur of 
the epic subject ? Who, in the choice 
of their subjects, have transgressed this 
rule; and what is the consequence ? 
To what is antiquity favourable ; and 
why ? When is this liberty abridged; 
and what must he, consequently, do; 
or, if he goes beyond it, what disadvan¬ 
tage follows ? Why cannot these ob¬ 
servations be applied to dramatic wri¬ 
ting? Of such passions, what is ob¬ 
served ? What may, therefore, furnish 
very proper materials for tragedy ? 
But, for epic poetry, what is the safest 
region ; and why ? What is the third 


property required in the epic poem? 
Why is it not sufficient for this purpose 
that it be great ? On what will much 
depend; and what examples are men¬ 
tioned ? Of most of the great epic po¬ 
ems, what, in this respect, is observed? 
But what is the chief circumstance 
which renders an epic poem interest¬ 
ing? How is this fully illustrated? 
What epic poets are the most happy 
in this respect ? On what, also, does 
much depend, for rendering the poem 
interesting? What effect must they 
produce ? What do these dangers, or 
obstacles, form; and in the judicious 
conduct of them, consists what? In 
what manner must he conduct it? 
What is manifest ? What question has 
been moved ? To what opinion are 
most critics inclined? Why do they 
appear to have reason on their side ? 
What illustration of this remark fol 
lows ? To this general practice, what 
two exceptions have we; and how do 
they conclude? With regard to the du¬ 
ration of the epic action, what is ob¬ 
served ? Why is a considerable extent 
always allowed to it? What is the du¬ 
ration of the action of the Iliad, of the 
Odyssey, and of the ./Eneid ? How may 
the duration of two of these poems be 
brought into a much smaller compass ? 
Within what compass are they thus 
brought ? Having treated of the epic 
action, to what does our author next 
proceed ? As it is the business of the 
epic poet to copy after nature, and to 
form a probable and interesting tale, 
what must he study to do ? What does 
Aristotle call this? What is, by no 
means, necessary ? Though vicious 
characters may find a proper place, 
yet, what does the nature of epic poe¬ 
try seem to require ? But whatever 
the character of his actors be, about 
what must he take care ; and for what 
reason? Into what two kinds may 
poetic characters be divided? What 
are general characters; what are par¬ 
ticular characters; and what do they 
exhibit? In drawing such particular 
characters, what is chiefly exerted? 
What remark follows ? W T hat is it at 
present sufficient to do ? What has 
been the practice of all epic poets? As 
this is considered essent ial to epic com¬ 
position, with what advantages is it 
attended? What question has been 
asked ; how answered ; and what re- 








QUESTIONS. 


481 b 


LECT. XLIII. j 

mark follows ? Besides human actors, 
what other personages, usually, occupy 
no small place in epic poetry? To 
what does this bring us? On this sub¬ 
ject, what has been the opinion of 
French critics; and of this decision, 
what is observed? What did these 
poets do ; but what does not thence fol¬ 
low ? How is this illustrated from Lu¬ 
can, and from the author of Leonidas ? 
But though our author cannot admit 
that machinery is essential to the epic 
plan, with what opinion can he not 
agree; and why ? What advantages 
does it afford ? At the same time, how 
must this machinery be used; and 
what, must the poet always remem¬ 
ber? What remarks follow ? With re¬ 
gard to allegorical personages, what is 
observed ? Where are they sometimes 
allowable ? In what should they never 
be permitted to bear any part; and 
why? In the narration of the poet, 
what is not material; and why ? What 
is the chief advantage that arises from 
the latter method ? When is this me¬ 
thod, therefore, preferable; and when 


is the former ? In the invocation of the 
muse, what is observed ? What is per¬ 
fectly trifling; and why? What is of 
most importance in the tenour of the 
narration; and what remark follows ? 
It is the region within which we look 
for what; and, therefore, what fol¬ 
lows? Of what kind must the orna- 
ments of epic poetry be; and why ? 

ANALYSIS. 

Epic poetry. 

1. Bossu’s definition. 

a. Illustrated. 

b. Criticised. 

2. The author’s definition. 
a. Its design. 

3. The character of the epic poem. 
a. The action. 

o. Unity. 

(a.) Illustrated. 

» (6.) Episodes not excluded. 

Their requisites, 
h. Greatness requisite, 
c. It must be interesting. 

4. The characters to be introduced in 
epic poetry. 

a. General and particular. 

b. The hero. 

c. The machinery. 

5. The narration. 


LECTURE XLIfil. 

HOMER’S ILIAD AND ODYSSEY.—VIRGIL’S jENEID. 

As the epic poem is universally allowed to possess the highest 
rank among poetical works, it merits a particular discussion. 
Having treated of the nature of this composition, and the principal 
rules relating to it, I proceed to make some observations on the most 
distinguished epic poems, ancient and modern. 

Homer claims, on every account, our first attention, as the father 
not only of epic poetry, but, in some measure, of poetry in general. 
Whoever sits down to read Homer, must consider that he is going 
to read the most ancient book in the world, next to the Bible. 
Without making this reflection, he cannot enter into the spirit, nor 
relish the composition of the author. He is not to look for the cor¬ 
rectness and elegance of the Augustan age. He must divest him¬ 
self of our modern ideas of dignity and refinement, and transport 
his imagination almost three thousand years back in the history of 
mankind. What he is to expect, is a picture of the ancient world. 
He must reckon upon finding characters and manners, that retain a 
considerable tincture of the savage state ; moral ideas, as yet imper¬ 
fectly formed ; and the appetites and passions of men brought under 
none of those restraints to which, in a more advanced state of society, 
they are accustomed ; but bodily strength prized as one of the 
chief heroic endowments ; the preparing of a meal, and the appeas- 










THE ILIAD OF HOMER. [>ect. xliii. 

ing of hunger, described as very interesting objects ; and the heroes 
boasting of themselves openly, scolding one another outrageously, 
and glorying, as we should now think very indecently, over their 
fallen enemies. 

The opening of the Iliad possesses none of that sort of dignity, 
which a modern looks for in a great epic poem. It turns on no higher 
subject, than the quarrel of two chieftains about a female slave. 
The priest of Apollo beseeches Agamemnon to restore his daughter, 
who, in the plunder of a city, had fallen to Agamemnon’s "share 
of booty. He refuses. Apollo, at the prayer of his priest, sends a 
plague into the Grecian camp. The augur, when consulted, declares 
that there is no way of appeasing Apollo, but by restoring the daugh¬ 
ter of his priest. Agamemnon is enraged at the augur; professes 
that he likes this slave better than his wife Clytemnestra; but since 
he must restore her, in order to save the army, insists to have another 
in her place; and pitches upon Briseis, the slave of Achilles. Achil¬ 
les, as was to be expected, kindles into a rage at this demand ; re¬ 
proaches him for his rapacity and insolence, and after giving him 
many hard names, solemnly swears, that, if he is to be thus treated 
by the general, he will withdraw his troops, and assist the Grecians 
no more against the Trojans. He withdraws accordingly. His 
mother, the goddess Thetis, interests Jupiter in his cause; who, to 
revenge the wrong which Achilles had suffered, takes part against the 
Greeks, and suffers them to fall into great and long distress; un¬ 
til Achilles is pacified, and reconciliation brought about between 
him and Agamemnon. 

Such is the basis of the whole action of the Iliad. Hence rise all 
those ‘speciosamiracula,’ as Horace terms them, which fill that ex¬ 
traordinary poem; and which have had the power of interesting al¬ 
most all the nations of Europe, during every age, since the days of 
Homer. The general admiration commanded by a poetical plan, 
so very different from what any one would have formed in our times, 
ought not, upon reflection, to be matter of surprise. For, besides 
that a fertile genius can enrich and beautify any subject on which it 
is employed, it is to be observed, that ancient manners, how much 
soever they contradict our present notions of dignity and refinement, 
afford, nevertheless, materials for poetry, superior, in some respects, 
to those which are furnished by a more polished state of society. 
They discover human nature more open and undisguised, without 
any of those studied forms of behaviour which now conceal men 
from one another. They give free scope to the strongest and most 
impetuous emotions of the mind, which make a better figure in de¬ 
scription than calm and temperate feelings. They show us our na¬ 
tive prejudices, appetites, and desires, exerting themselves without 
control. From this state of manners, joined with the advantage of 
that strong and expressive style, which, as I formerly observed, com¬ 
monly distinguishes the compositions of early ages, we have ground 
to look for more of the boldness, ease, and freedom of native Genius 
in compositions of such a period, than in those of more civilized 
times. And, accordingly, the two great characters of the Homeric 


T.ECT. xj.iii.] THE ILIAD OF HOMER. 


483 


poetry are fire and simplicity. Let us now proceed to make some 
more particular observations on the Iliad, under the three heads of 
the subject and action, the characters, and narration of the poet. 

The subject of the Iliad must unquestionably be admitted to be, 
in the main, happily chosen. In the days of Homer, no object 
could be more splendid and dignified than the Trojan war. So great 
a confederacy of the Grecian states, under one leader, and the ten 
years’ siege which they carried on against Troy, must have spread 
far abroad the renown of many military exploits, and interested all 
Greece in the traditions concerning the heroes who had most emi¬ 
nently signalized themselves. Upon these traditions Homer ground¬ 
ed his poem; and though he lived, as is generally believed, only 
two or three centuries after the Trojan war, yet, through the want 
of written records, tradition must, by this time, have fallen into 
the degree of obscurity most proper for poetry; and have left him 
at full liberty to mix as much fable as he pleased with the remains 
of true history. He has not chosen for his subject the whole 
Trojan war; but, with great judgment, he has selected one part of 
it, the quarrel betwixt Achilles and Agamemnon, and the events to 
which that quarrel gave rise; which, though they take up forty-seven 
days only, yet included the most interesting and most critical period 
of the war. By this management, he has given greater unity to 
what would have otherwise been an unconnected history of battles. 
He has gained one hero, or principal character, Achilles, who reigns 
throughout the work; and he has shown the pernicious effect of discord 
among confederated princes. At the same time, I admit that Ho¬ 
mer is less fortunate in his subject than Virgil. The plan of the 
iEneid includes a greater compass, and a more agreeable diversity of 
events ; whereas the Iliad is almost entirely filled with battles. 

The praise of high invention has, in every age, been given to 
Homer, with the greatest reason. The prodigious number of in¬ 
cidents, of speeches, of characters divine and human, with which 
lie abounds; the surprising variety with which he has diversified 
his battles, in the wounds and deaths, and little history pieces of 
almost all the persons slain, discover an invention next to bound¬ 
less. But the praise of judgment is, in my opinion, no less due to 
Homer, than that of invention. His story is all along conducted 
with great art. He rises upon us gradually ; his heroes are brought 
out, one after another, to be objects ot our attention. The distress 
thickens, as the poem advances; and every thing is so contrived 
as to aggrandize Achilles, and to render him, as the poet intended 
he should be, the capital figure. 

But that wherein Homer excels all writers is the characteristical 
part. Here he is without a rival. His lively and spirited exhibition 
of characters is, in a great measure, owing to his being so dra¬ 
matic a writer, abounding every where with dialogue and conversa¬ 
tion. There is much more dialogue in Homer than in Virgil: or, 
indeed, than in any other poet. What Virgil informs us of by two 
words of narration, Homer brings about by a speech. We may 
observe here, that this method of writing is more ancient than 
4 A 


4S4 THE ILIAD OF HOMER. [lect. xtim. 

Ihe narrative manner. Of this we have a clear proof in the books of 
the Old 1 estament, which, instead of narration, abound with speeches, 
with answers and replies, upon the most familiar subjects. Thus, in 
the book of Genesis : ‘ Joseph said unto his brethren, Whence come 
}^e? and they answered, From the land of Canaan we come to buy 
food. And Joseph said, Ye are spies; to see the nakedness of the 
land are ye come. And they said unto him, Nay, my lord, but 
to buy food are thy servants come; we are all one man’s sons, we 
are true men, thy servants are no spies. And he said unto them, 
Nay, but to see the nakedness of the land ye are come. And they 
said, Thy servants are twelve brethren, the sons of one man in the 
land of Canaan; and behold, the youngest is this day with our fa¬ 
ther; and one is not. And Joseph said unto them ; This it is that 
I spake unto you, saying, ye are spies. Hereby ye shall be pro¬ 
ved ; by the life of Pharaoh, ye shall not go forth, except your you ng- 

est brother come hither,’ &c. Genesis xlii. 7—15. Such a style 
as this, is the most simple and artless form of writing, and must, 
therefore, undoubtedly, have been the most ancient. It is copying 
directly from nature; giving a plain rehearsal of what passed, or 
was supposed to pass, in conversation between the persons of whom 
the author treats. In progress of time, when the art of writing was 
more studied, it was thought more elegant to compress the substance 
of conversation into short distinct narrative, made by the poet or 
historian in his own person ; and to reserve direct speeches for 
solemn occasions only. 

The ancient dramatic method which Homer practised has some 
advantages, balanced with some defects. It renders composition 
more natural and animated, and more expressive of manners and 
characters; but withal less grave and majestic, and sometimes tire¬ 
some. Homer, it must be admitted, has carried his propensity to 
the making of speeches too far; and if he be tedious any where 
it is in these; some of them trifling, and some of them plainly un¬ 
seasonable. Together with the Greek vivacity, he leaves upon our 
minds some impression of the Greek loquacity also. His speeches, 
however, are upon the whole characteristic and lively ; and to them 
we owe, in a great measure, that admirable display which he has 
given of human nature. Every one who reads him, becomes fa¬ 
miliarly and intimately acquainted with his heroes. We seem to 
have lived among them, and to have conversed with them. Not 
only has he pursued the single virtue of courage through all its dif¬ 
ferent forms and features, in his different warriors; but some more 
delicate characters, into which courage either enters not at all, or but 
tor an inconsiderable part, he has drawn with singular art. 

How finely, for instance, has he painted the character of Helen 
so as, notwithstanding her frailty and her crimes, to prevent her 
from being an odious object! The admiration with which the old 
generals behold her, in the third book, when she is coming towards 
them, presents her to us with much dignity. Her veiling herself and 
bedding tears, her confusion in the presence of Priam, her grief 


iiECT. xliii.] THE ILIAD OF HOMER. 


485 


and self-accusations at the sight of Menelaus, her upbraiding Paris 
tor his cowardice, and, at the same time, her returning fondness 
for him, exhibit the most striking features of that mixed female 
character, which we partly condemn, and partly pity. Homer 
never introduces her without making her say something to move 
our compassion : while, at the same time, he takes care to contrast 
her character with that of a virtuous matron, in the chaste and 
tender Andromache. 

Paris himself, the author of all the mischief, is characterized with 
the utmost propriety. He is, as we should expect him, a mixture 
of gallantry and effeminacy. He retreats from Menelaus, on his first 
appearance ; but, immediately afterwards, enters into single combat 
with him. He is a great master of civility, remarkably courteous in 
his speeches ; and receives all the reproofs of his brother Hector 
with modesty and deference. He is described as a person of ele¬ 
gance and taste. He was the architect of his own palace. He is, 
in the sixth book, found by Hector, burnishing and dressing up his 
armour; and issues forth to battle with a peculiar gayety and osten¬ 
tation of appearance, which is illustrated by one of the finest com¬ 
parisons in all the Iliad, that of the horse prancing to the river. 

Homer has been blamed for making his hero Achilles of too bru¬ 
tal and unamiable a character. But I am inclined to think, that in¬ 
justice is commonly done to Achilles upon the credit of two lines 
of Horace, who has certainly overloaded his character. 

Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer, 

Jura neget sibi nata, nihil non arroget armis. A. P. 121. 

Achilles is passionate, indeed, to a great degree; but he is far from 
being a contemner of laws and justice. In the contest with Aga¬ 
memnon, though he carries it on with too much heat, yet he has 
reason on his side. He was notoriously wronged ; but he submits, 
and resigns Briseis peaceably, when the heralds come to demand 
her; only he will fight no longer under the command of a leader 
who had affronted him. Besides his wonderful bravery and con¬ 
tempt of death, he has several other qualities of a hero. He is open 
and sincere. He loves his subjects, and respects the gods. He is 
distinguished by strong friendships and attachments ; he is through¬ 
put, hTgh-spirited, gallant, and honourable ; and allowing for a de¬ 
cree of ferocity which belonged to the times, and enters into the 
characters of most of Homer’s heroes, he is, upon the whole, abun¬ 
dantly fitted to raise high admiration, though not pure esteem. 

Under the head of characters, Homer’s gods, or his machinery, 
according to the critical term, come under consideration. The 
gods make a great figure in the Iliad ; much greater indeed than 
they do in the iEneid, or in any other epic poem ; and hence Ho¬ 
mer has become the standard of poetic theology. Concerning ma¬ 
chinery in general, I delivered my sentiments in the former lec¬ 
ture. Concerning Homer’s machinery, in particular, we must ob¬ 
serve, that it was not his own invention. Like every other good 
poet, he unquestionably followed the traditions of his country. 
The a°*e of the Troian war approached the age of the gods and de 


'iat> 


THE ILIAD OF HOMER. [lect. xliii. 

mi-gods in Greece. Several of the heroes concerned in that war 
were reputed to be the children of these gods. Of course, the tra¬ 
ditionary tales relating to them, and to the exploits of that age, 
were blended with the fables of the deities. These popular legends 
Homer very properly adopted; though it is perfectly absurd to 
infer from this, that therefore poets arising in succeeding ages, and 
writing on quite different subjects, are obliged to follow the same 
system of machinery. 

In the hands of Homer, it produces, on the whole, a noble effect; 
it is always gay and amusing; often lofty and magnificent. It in¬ 
troduces into his poem a great number of personages, almost as 
much distinguished by characters as his human actors. It diversi¬ 
fies his battles greatly, by the intervention of the godsj and by fre¬ 
quently shifting the scene from earth to heaven, it gives an agree¬ 
able relief to the mind, in the midst of so much blood and slaughter. 
Homer’s gods, it must be confessed, though they be always lively 
and animated figures, yet sometimes want dignity. The conjugal 
contentions between Juno and Jupiter, with which he entertains us, 
and the indecent squabbles he describes among the inferior deities, 
according as they take different sides with the contending parties, 
would be very improper models for any modern poet to imitate. 
In apology for Homer, however, it must be remembered, that ac¬ 
cording to the fables of those days, the gods are but one remove 
above the condition of men. They have all the human passions. They 
drink and feast, and are vulnerable like men ; they have children 
and kinsmen in the opposite armies; and except that they are im¬ 
mortal, that they have houses on the top of Olympus, and winged 
chariots, in which they are often flying down to earth, and then 
reascending, in order to feast on nectar and ambrosia; they are in 
truth no higher beings than the human heroes, and therefore very 
fit to take part in their contentions. At the same time, though 
Homer so frequently degrades his divinities, yet he knows how to 
make them appear, in some conjunctures, with the most awful ma¬ 
jesty* Jupiter, the father of gods and men, is, for the most part, 
introduced with great dignity; and several of the most sublime 
conceptions in the Iliad are founded on the appearances of Neptune, 
Minerva, and Apollo, on great occasions. 

With regard to Homer’s style and manner of writing, it is easy, 
natural, and in the highest degree animated. It will be admired 
by such only as relish ancient simplicity, and can make allowance 
tor certain negligences and repetitions, which greater refinement in 
the art of writing has taught succeeding, though far inferior, poets 
to avoid. For Homer is the most simple in his style of all the great 
poets, and resembles most the style of the poetical parts of the Old 
Testament. They can have no conception of his manner, who are 
acquainted with him in Mr. Pope’s translation only. An excellent 
poetical performance that translation is, and faithful in the main to 
the original. In some places, it may be thought to have even im¬ 
proved Homer. It has certainly softened some of his rudenesses, 
and added delicacy and grace to some of his sentiments. But with- 


lect. xLin.J THE ILIAD OF HOMER. 


487 


al, it is no other than Homer modernized. In the midst of the ele¬ 
gance and luxuriancy of Mr. Pope’s language, we lose sight of the 
old bard’s simplicity. I know indeed no author, to whom it is more 
difficult to do justice in a translation, than Homer. As the plainness 
of his diction, were it literally rendered, would often appear flat in 
any modern language; so, in the midst of that plainness, and not a 
little heightened by it, there are every where breaking forth upon 
us flashes of native fire, of sublimity and beauty, which hardly any 
language, except his own, could preserve. His versification has 
been universally acknowledged to be uncommonly melodious; and 
to carry, beyond that of any poet, a resemblance in the sound to the 
sense and meaning. 

In narration, Homer is, at all times, remarkably concise, which 
renders him lively and agreeable ; though, in his speeches,as I have 
before admitted, sometimes tedious. He is every where descriptive; 
and descriptive by means of those well chosen particulars which 
form the excellency of description. Virgil gives us the nod of Ju¬ 
piter with great magnificence : 

Annuit, et totum nutu tremefecit Olympian. IX. 106. 

But Homer, in describing the same thing, gives us the sable eye¬ 
brows of Jupiter bent, and his ambrosial curls shaken, at the mo¬ 
ment when he gives the nod ; and thereby renders the figure more 
natural and lively. Whenever he. seeks to draw our attention to 
some interesting object, he particularizes it so happily, as to paint it 
in a manner to our sight. The shot of Pandarus’s arrow, which 
broke the truce between the two armies, as related in the fourth 
book, may be given for an instance ; and above all, the admirable 
interview of Hector with Andromache, in the sixth book: where 
all the circumstances of conjugal and parental tenderness, the child 
affrighted with the view of his father’s helmet and crest, and clinging 
to the nurse ; Hector putting oft' his helmet, taking the child into 
his arms, and offering up a prayer for him to the gods; Andromache 
receiving back the child with a smile of pleasure, and at the same 
instant bursting into tears, Suxpvosv ys\a<fa<fa, as it is finely expressed 
in the original, form the most natural and affecting picture that can 
possibly be imagined. 

In the description of battles, Homer particularly excels. He 
works up the hurry, the terror, and confusion of them in so mas¬ 
terly a manner, as to place the reader in the very midst of the en¬ 
gagement. It is here, that the fire of his genius is most highly dis¬ 
played ; insomuch that Virgil’s battles, and indeed those of most 
other poets, are cold and inanimate in comparison of Homer’s. 

With regard to similes, no poet abounds so much with them. Se¬ 
veral of them are beyond doubt extremely beautiful: such as those 
of the fires in the Trojan camp compared to the moon and stars by 
night; Paris going forth to battle, to the war-horse prancing to the 
river; and Euphorbus slain, to the flowering shrub cut down by a 
sudden blast: all which are among the finest poetical passages that 
are any where to be found. I am not, however, of opinion that 


488 


THE ODYSSEY OF HOMER. [lect. xliii. 

Homer’s comparisons, taken in general, are his greatest beauties. 
They come too thick upon us; and often interrupt the train of his 
narration or description. The resemblance on which they are 
founded, is sometimes not clear; and the objects whence they are 
taken are too uniform. His lions, bulls, eagles, and herds of sheep, 
recur too frequently; and the allusions in some of his similes, 
even after the allowances that are to be made for ancient manners, 
must be admitted to be debasing.* 

My observations, hitherto, have been made upon the Iliad only. 
It is necessary to take some notice of the Odyssey also. Longi¬ 
nus’s criticism upon it is not without foundation, that Homer may 
in this poem be compared to the setting sun, whose grandeur still 
remains without the heat of his meridian beams. It wants the vi¬ 
gour and sublimity of the Iliad; yet, at the same time, possesses 
so many beauties, as to be justly entitled to high praise. It is a very 
amusing poem, and has much greater variety than the Iliad ; it con¬ 
tains many interesting stories, and beautiful descriptions. We see 
every where the same descriptive and dramatic genius, and the 
same fertility of invention that appears in the otjier work. It de¬ 
scends indeed from the dignity of gods, and heroes, and warlike 
achievements; but in recompense we have more pleasing pictures 
of ancient manners. Instead of that ferocity which reigns in the 
Iliad, the Odyssey presents us with the most amiable images of hos¬ 
pitality and humanity ; entertains us with many a wonderful adven¬ 
ture, and many a landscape of nature; and instructs us by a con¬ 
stant vein of morality and virtue, which runs through the poem. 

At the same time there are some defects which must be acknow¬ 
ledged in the Odyssey. Many scenes in it fall below the majesty 
which we naturally expect in an epic poem. The last twelve books, 
after Ulysses is landed in Ithaca, are, in several parts, tedious and 
languid ; and though the discovery which Ulysses makes of him¬ 
self to his nurse, Euryclea,and his interview with Penelope, before 
she knows him, in the nineteenth book, are tender and affecting yet 


77 . The severest critic upon Homer in modern times, M. la Motte, admits all that his 
admirers urge for the superiority of his genius and talents as a poet: “ C’6toit un 
genie naturellement poetique, ami des fables et des merveilleux, et porte en general 
u 1 imitation, soit des objets de la nature^ soit des sentimens et des actions des 
hommes. II avoit 1’esprit vaste et f6cond ; plus eleve que delicat, plus naturel qu’in^e- 
nieux, et plus amoureux de l’abondance que du choix —II a saisi, par une superiorite 
de gout, les premieres idees de l’eloquence dans toutes les genres ; il a parle le 
langage de toutes les passions ; et il a du moins o-uvert aux ecrivains qui doivent le 
suivre une infinite de routes, qu’il ne restoit plus qu’h applanir. Il y a apparence 
qu en quelques temps qu\ Homere eftt vecu, il etit ete, du moins, le plus grand poete 
de son pays : et k ne le prendre que dans ce sens, on peut dire, qu’il est le maitre 
de ceux memes qui l’ont surpasse.”—Discours sur Homere. CEuvres de la Motte 
tome il. After these high praises of the author, he indeed endeavours to bring- the 
ment of the Iliad very low. But his principal objections turn on the debasing ideas 
which are there given of the gods, the gross characters and manners of the heroes 
and the imperfect morality of the sentiments ; which, as Voltaire observes, is like ac¬ 
cusing a painter for having drawn his figures in the dress of the times. Homer paint¬ 
ed his gods such as popular tradition then represented them ; and describes such 
characters and sentiments, as he found among those with whom he lived . 



LECT. XLIII.j 


THE ENEID OF VIRGIL. 


489 


the poet does not seem happy in the great anagnorisis, or the disco¬ 
very of Ulysses to Penelope. She is too cautious and distrustful, and 
we are disappointed of the surprise of joy, which we expected on 
that high occasion. 

After having said so much of the father of epic poetry, it is now 
time to proceed to Virgil, who has a character clearly marked, and 
quite distinct from that of Homer. As the distinguishing excellencies 
of the Iliad are simplicity and fire; those of the Eneid are, elegance 
and tenderness. Virgil is, beyond doubt, less animated and less sub¬ 
lime than Homer; but, to counterbalance this, he has fewer negli¬ 
gences, greater variety, and supports more of a correct and regular 
dignity, throughout his work. 

When we begin to read the Iliad, we find ourselves in the region 
of the most remote, and even unrefined antiquity. When we open 
the iEneid, we discover all the correctness, and the improvements, 
of the Augustan age. We meet with no contentions of heroes about 
a female slave, no violent scolding, nor abusive language; but the 
poem opens with the utmost magnificence; with Juno, forming de¬ 
signs for preventing Eneas’sestablishment in Italy, and Eneas him¬ 
self presented to us with all his fleet, in the middle of a storm, which 
is described in the highest style of poetry. 

The subject of the iEneid is extremely happy; still more so, in 
my opinion, than either of Homer’s poems. As nothing could be 
more noble, nor carry more of epic dignity, so nothing could be 
more flattering and interesting to the Roman people,than Virgil’s 
deriving the origin of their state from so famous a hero as -Eneas. 
The object was splendid in itself; it gave the poet a theme, taken 
from the ancient traditionary history of his own country; it allowed 
him to connect his subject with Homer’s stories, and to adopt all his 
mythology; it afforded him the opportunity of frequently glancing 
at all the future great exploits of the Romans, and of describing 
Italy, and the very territory of Rome, in its ancient and fabulous 
state. The establishment of Eneas, constantly traversed by Juno, 
leads to a great diversity of events, of voyages, and wars; and fur¬ 
nishes a proper intermixture of the incidents of peace with martial, 
exploits. Upon the whole, I believe, there is no where to be found 
so complete a model of an epic fable, or story, as Virgil’s Eneid. 
I see no foundation for the opinion, entertained by some critics, that 
the Eneid is to be considered as an allegorical poem, which carries 
a constant reference to the character and reign of Augustus Caesar; 
or, that Virgil’s main design in composing the Eneid, was to recon¬ 
cile the Romans to the government of that prince, who is supposed 
to be shadowed out under the character of Eneas. Virgil, indeed, 
like the other poets of that age, takes every opportunity which his 
subject affords him, of paying court to Augustus.* But, to imagine 
that he carried a political plan in his view, through the whole poem, 
appears to me no more than a fanciful refinement. He had sufficient 


* As particularly in that noted passage of the sixth book, 1. 792. 
Hie vir, hie est, tibi quern promitti saepius audis, &c 




490 


THE iENEID OF VIRGIL. [lect. xliu. 


motives, as a poet, to determine him to the choice of his subject, 
from its being, in itself, both great and pleasing; from its being 
suited to his genius, and its being attended with the peculiar advan¬ 
tages, which I mentioned above, for the full display of poetical tal¬ 
ents. 

Unity of action is perfectly preserved ; as, from beginning to 
end, one main object is always kept in view, the settlement of 
iEneas in Italy, by the order of the gods. As the story compre¬ 
hends the transactions of several years, part of the transactions are 
very properly thrown into a recital made by the hero. The epi¬ 
sodes are linked with sufficient connexion to the main subject; and 
the nodus, or intrigue of the poem, is, according to the plan of ancient 
machinery, happily formed. The wrath of Juno, who opposes 
herself to the Trojan settlement in Italy, gives rise to all the diffi¬ 
culties which obstruct iEneas’s undertaking, and connects the hu¬ 
man with the celestial operations, throughout the whole work. 
Hence arise the tempest which throws Aeneas upon the shore of 
Africa; the passion of Dido, who endeavours to detain him at Car¬ 
thage ; and the efforts of Turnus, who opposes him in war. Till, 
at last, upon a composition made with Jupiter, that the Trojan 
name shall be for ever sunk in the Latin, Juno foregoes her resent¬ 
ment, and the hero becomes victorious. 

In these main points, Virgil has conducted his work with great 
propriety, and shown his art and judgment. But the admiration due 
to so eminent a poet, must not prevent us from remarking some 
other particulars in which he has failed. First, there are scarce 
any characters marked in the JEneid. In this respect it is insipid, 
when compared to the Iliad, which is full of characters and life. 
Achates, and Cloanthus, and Gyas, and the rest of the Trojan 
heroes, who accompanied iEneas into Italy, are so many undistin¬ 
guished figures, who are in no way made known to us, either by any 
Sentiments which they utter, or any memorable exploits which they 
perform. Even iEneas himself is not a very interesting hero. He 
is described, indeed, as pious and brave; but his character is not 
marked with any of those strokes that touch the heart; it is a sort 
of cold and tame character; and throughout his behaviour to Dido, 
in the fourth book, especially in the speech which he makes after 
she suspected his intention of leaving her, there appears a certain 
hardness and want of relenting, which is far from rendering him 
amiable.* Dido’s own character is by much the best supported in 
the whole JEneid. The warmth of her passions, the keenness of 
her indignation and resentment, and the violence of her whole cha¬ 
racter, exhibit a figure greatly more animated than any other which 
Virgil has drawn. 

Besides this defect of character in the iEneid, the distribution 
and management of the subject are, in some respects, exception¬ 
able. The JEneid, it is true, must be considered with the indul- 


* Num fletu ingemuit nostro ? num lamina flexit ? 

Nnm Jacrymas victus dedit, ant. miseratus amantem est ? iv 36P. 



lect. xliii.] THE ENEID OF VIRGIL. 


491 


gence due to a work not thoroughly completed. The six last books 
are said not to have received the finishing hand of the author; and 
for this reason, he ordered, by his will, the Eneid to be commit¬ 
ted to the flames. But though this may account for incorrectness 
of execution, it does not apologize for a falling off in the subject, 
which seems to take place in the latter part of the work. The wars 
with the Latins are inferior, in point of dignity, to the more inter¬ 
esting objects which had before been presented to us in the destruc¬ 
tion of Troy, the intrigue with Dido, and the descent into hell. 
And in those Italian wars, there is, perhaps, a more material fault 
still, in the conduct of the story. The reader, as Voltaire has ob¬ 
served, is tempted to take part with Turnus against Eneas. Tur- 
nus, a brave young prince, in love with Lavinia, his near relation, 
is destined for her by general consent, and highly favoured by her 
mother. Lavinia herself discovers no reluctance to the match: 
when there arrives a stranger, a fugitive from a distant region, 
who had never seen her, and who, founding a claim to an establish¬ 
ment in Italy upon oracles and prophecies, embroils the country in 
war, kills the lover of Lavinia, and proves the occasion of her 
mother’s death. Such a plan is not fortunately laid for disposing 
us to be favourable to the hero of the poem; and the defect might, 
have been easily remedied, by the poet’s making Eneas, instead 
of distressing Lavinia, deliver her from the persecution of some 
rival who was odious to her, and to the whole country. 

But notwithstanding these defects, which it was necessary to re¬ 
mark, Virgil possesses beauties which have justly drawn the admi¬ 
ration of ages, and which, to this day, hold the balance in equili¬ 
brium between his fame and that of Homer. The principal and 
distinguishing excellency of Virgil, and which, in my opinion, he 
possesses beyond all poets, is tenderness. Nature had endowed 
him with exquisite sensibility ; he felt every affecting circumstance 
in the scenes he describes; and, by a single stroke, he knows*how 
to reach the heart. This, in an epic poem, is the merit next to 
sublimity; and puts it in an author’s power to render his composi¬ 
tion extremely interesting to all readers. 

The chief beauty of this kind in the Iliad, is, the interview of 
Hector with Andromache. But in the Eneid, there are many such. 
The second book is one of the greatest masterpieces that ever was 
executed by any hand ; and Virgil seems to have put forth there the 
whole strength of his genius, as the subject afforded a variety of 
scenes, both of the awful and tender kind. The images of horror, 
presented by a city burnt and sacked in the night, are finely mixed 
with pathetic and affecting incidents. Nothing, in any poet, is 
more beautifully described than the death of old Priam ; and the 
family-pieces of .Eneas, Anchises, and Creusa, are as tender as can 
be conceived In many passages of the Eneid, the same pathetic 
spirit shines; and they have been always the favourite passages in 
that work. The fourth book, for instance, relating the unhappy 
passion and death of Dido, has been always most justly admired, 
and abounds with beauties of the highest kind. The interview of 
4 B 


492 


THE JENEID OF VIRGIL. [lect. xliu, 


Eneas with Andromache and Helenus, in the third book ; the epi¬ 
sodes of Pallas and Evander, of Nisus and Euryalus, of Lausus and 
MezentiuSjin the Italian wars, are all stt iking instances of the poet’s 
power of raising the tender emotions. For we must observe, that 
though the Eneid be an unequal poem, and, in some places, languid, 
yet there are beauties scattered through it all ; and not a few, even 
in the last six books. The best and most finished books, upon the 
whole, are, the first, the second, the fourth, the sixth, the'seventh, 
the eighth, and the twelfth 

Virgil’s battles are far inferior to Homer’s, in point of fire and 
sublimity ; but there is one important episode, the descent into hell, 
in which he has outdone Homer in the Odyssey, by many degrees. 
There is nothing in all antiquity equal, in its kind, to the sixth 
book of the Eneid. The scenery, and the objects, are great and 
striking; and fill the mind with that solemn awe, which was to be 
expected from a view of the invisible world. There runs through 
the whole description a certain philosophical sublime ; which Vir¬ 
gil’s Platonic genius, and the enlarged ideas of the Augustan age, 
enabled him to support with a degree of majestv, far beyond what 
the rude ideas of Homer’s age suffered him to attain. With regard 
to the sweetness and beauty of Virgil’s numbers, throughout his 
whole works, they are so well known, that it were needless to en¬ 
large in the praise of them. 

Upon the whole, as to the comparative merit of these two great 
princes of epic poetry, Homer and Virgil ; the former must, un¬ 
doubtedly, be admitted to be the greater genius; the latter, to be 
the more correct writer. Homer was an original in his art, and dis¬ 
covers both the beauties and the defects which are to be expected 
in an original author, compared with those who succeed him ; more 
boldness, more nature and ease, more sublimity and force; but 
greater irregularities and negligences in composition. Virgil has, 
all along, kept his eye upon Homer ; in many places, he has not so 
much imitated, as he has literally translated him. The description 
of the storm, for instance, in the first Eneid, and -Eneas’s speech 
upon that occasion, are translations from the fifth book of the Odys¬ 
sey; not to mention almost all the similes of Virgil, which are no 
other than copies of thoseof Homer. The pre-eminence in invention, 
therefore, must, beyond doubt, be ascribed to Homer. As to the pre¬ 
eminence in judgment, though many critics are disposed to give it to 
Virgil, yet, in my opinion, it hangs doubtful. I n Homer, we discern 
all the Greek vivacity ; in Virgil, all the Roman stateliness. Ho¬ 
mer’s imagination is by much the most rich and copious; Virgil’s, 
the most chaste and correct. The strength of the former lies in his 
power of warming the fancy; that of the latter, in his power of touch¬ 
ing the heart. Homer’s style is more simple and animated ; Virgil’s ' 
more elegant and uniform The first has, on many occasions, a sub¬ 
limity to which the latter never attains; but the latter, in return, 
never sinks below a certain degree of epic dignity, which cannot so 
clearly be pronounced of the former. Not, however, to detract from 
the admiration due to both these great poets, most of Homer’s de- 


LECT. XLI11. | 


QUESTIONS. 


493 


fects may reasonably be imputed, not to his genius, but to the man¬ 
ners of the age in which he lived ; and for the feeble passages of the 
iEneid, this excuse ought to be admitted, that the iEneid was left an 
untinished work. 


QUESTIONS. 


Why does the epic poem merit par¬ 
ticular discussion? Having treated of 
the nature of this composition, and of 
the principal rules relating to it, to 
what does our author proceed ? Who 
claims our first attention; and why ? 
What must, whoever sits down to 
read Homer, consider ? Why should he 
make this reflection? For what is he 
not to look; and of what must he di¬ 
vest himself? What is he to expect; 
and what must he reckon upon finding? 
What does the opening of the Iliad 
not possess? Upon what does it turn? 
Repeat the basis of the whole action of 
the Iliad, as illustrative of this remark. 
Hence, rise what ? What ought not to 
be a matter of surprise ; and why not ? 
How do they discover human nature ? 
To what do they give free scope; and 
what do they show us ? From this state 
of manners, together with its attending 
circumstances, for what have we 
ground to look ? And accordingly, 
what are the two great characters of 
Homeric poetry? Under what three 
heads do we now proceed to make some 
more particular observations on the 
Iliad ? Why must the subject of the 
Iliad be admitted to be a happy one ? 
Upon what traditions did Homer ground 
his poem ; and what remark follows ? 
What part of the Trojan war did Ho¬ 
mer select as his subject? From this 
management, what, advantage did he 
derive ? What has he gained; and 
what shown ? At the same time, what 
must be admitted ; and why ? What, 
in all ages, has, with the greatest rea¬ 
son, been given to Homer ? How is 
this illustrated ? But the praise of what, 
is also equally his due ? How is this, 
also, illustrated ? In what does Homer 
stand without a rival ? To what is his 
lively and spirited exhibition of charac¬ 
ters owing? What remark follows? 
What Virgil informs us by two words 
of narration, Homer brings about by 
what? What may we here observe ; 
and in what books have we a clear 
proof of this remark ? Repeat the pas¬ 


sage from the book of Genesis, illustra¬ 
tive of this remark. Of this style, what 
is observed ? It is copying from what; 
and what is it giving ? In progress of 
time, what was thought more elegant ? 
What are the advantages, and also the 
disadvantages, of the ancient dramatic 
method which Homer practised? Of 
his speeches, however, what is farther 
observed; and to them, what do we 
owe ? How is this illustrated ? Of the 
extent to which he has pursued the sin- 
• le virtue of courage, what is remark¬ 
ed ? How is this remark illustrated, in 
the manner in which the character of 
Helen is painted ? What presents her 
to us with much dignity? What ex¬ 
hibit. the most striking features of that 
mixed female character, which we 
partly condemn, and partly pity ? Ho¬ 
mer never introduces her without 
what; and, at the same time, about 
what is he careful ? How is Paris him¬ 
self characterized ? Repeat his parti¬ 
cular characteristics. For what has 
Homer been blamed ? But to what 
opinion is our author inclined ? What 
are Achilles’ peculiar characteristics? 
Under the head of characters, what 
come under consideration; and of them, 
what is observed? Concerning ma¬ 
chinery in general, and concerning 
Homer’s machinery in particular, what 
is remarked? What did he follow? 
How is this illustrated ? In the hands 
of Homer, what is its effect; and of it, 
what remarks follow? Of Homer’a 
gods, what must be confessed? What 
illustration of this remark follows ? In 
apology, however, for Homer, what 
must be remarked? How is this re¬ 
mark illustrated ? At the same time, 
how does he frequently make them ap¬ 
pear ; and what instances are men¬ 
tioned ? With regard to Homer’s style 
and manner of writing, what is re¬ 
marked ? By whom only will it be ad¬ 
mired ; and why ? Who can have no 
conception of his manner? Of tha* 
translation, what, character is given ? 
Why is it so difficult to do justice to 







4fld> u 


QUESTIONS. 


[LECT. XLII!» 


Homer, in a translation ? Of his versi¬ 
fication, what is observed ? 

How is Homer in narration? By 
means of what, is he every where de¬ 
scriptive ? How is he contrasted in this 
respect with Virgil? Whenever he 
seeks to draw our attention to any par¬ 
ticular object, what does he do ? What 
form the most natural and affecting 
picture that can possibly be imagined? 
In what does Homer particularly ex¬ 
cel ? What does he do; and here, how 
does he compare with other poets ? 
With regard to his similes, what is re¬ 
marked ? Of his beautiful similes, what 
instances are given ? Of what, howev¬ 
er, is our author not of opinion ; and 
why are they not ? Upon what has our 
author’s observations, hitherto, been 
made; and of what is it necessary, also, 
to take some notice ? What is the criti¬ 
cism of Longinus on this poem ? What 
does it wmnt; yet, at the same time, 
what does it possess? What do we 
every where see? From what does it 
descend; but, in recompense for this, 
what have we ? Instead of that feroci¬ 
ty which reigns in the Iliad, with what 
does the Odyssey present us ? At the 
same time, what are the defects of the 
Odyssey ? After having said so much 
of the father of epic poetry, to whom 
do we proceed; and of him, what is 
observed ? How does he differ from Ho¬ 
mer? When we begin to read the 
Iliad, where do we find ourselves ? 
When we open the iEneid, what do 
we discover? With what do we not 
meet ? How does the poem open ; and 
with what ? Why is the subject of the 
iEneid considered extremely happy? 
Of the object, what is observed ; and 
what theme did it give the poet ? What 
did it allow him; and what, also, afford 
him ? To what does the establishment 
of iEneas, constantly traversed by Ju¬ 
no, lead; and what does it furnish ? 
Upon the whole, what does our au¬ 
thor believe? For what opinion does 
he see no foundation ? What does 
Virgil, like every other poet of that age, 
do; but what appears no more than a 
fanciful refinement ? What motives, as 
a poet, had he to determine him in the 
choice of his subject ? How is the unity 
of the action perfectly preserved ? Why 
are part of the transactions very proper¬ 
ly thrown into a recital made by the 
hero ? Of the episodes, and of the in¬ 
trigue of the poem, what is observed ? 


What was the effect of the wrath of 
Juno; and Hence, arise what ? In these 
main points, how has Virgil conducted 
his work; and what has he shown ? 
But the admiration due to so eminent 
a poet, must not prevent what ? What 
is the first; and in this respect, how does 
it compare with the Iliad ? Of the com¬ 
panions of .Eneas, what is observed? 
What is said even of Eneas himself ? 
Which is the best supported character 
in the book; and how is this illustra¬ 
ted ? Besides this defect of character, 
what else are, in some respects, excep¬ 
tionable? With what indulgence must 
the Eneid be considered; and why ? 
For this reason, what did he, by his 
will, order ? But though this may ac¬ 
count for incorrectness of execution, for 
what does it not apologize ? How is 
this remark illustrated? For what is 
such a plan unfortunate; and how 
might the defect have been easily re¬ 
medied? But notwithstanding these 
defects, what does Virgil possess? 
What is his distinguishing excellency? 
With what had nature endowed him; 
and what was the consequence? Of 
this merit, in an epic poem, what is ob¬ 
served ? What is the chief beauty of 
this kind in the Iliad ? Of the second 
book of the Eneid, what is observed ? 
What instances are mentioned ? How 
have such passages in the Eneid al¬ 
ways been regarded ? Of the death of 
Dido, in the fourth book, what is obser¬ 
ved ? What farther instances of the 
poet’s power of raising the tender emo¬ 
tions, are given ? For we must observe 
what ? What are the best and most 
finished books of the Eneid ? Though 
Virgil’s battles are inferior to Homer’s, 
yet in what has he excelled him by 
many degrees ? What are the peculiar 
excellences of the sixth book of the 
Eneid? With regard to the sweetness 
and beauty of Virgil’s numbers, what 
is observed? Upon the whole, as to 
the comparative merit of these two 
princes of epic poetry, Homer and Vir¬ 
gil, with what remarks does our author 
close ? 


ANALYSIS. 

Homer—Introductory remarks. 

1. The Iliad. 

a. The basis of the action. 

b. The subject happily chosen. 

c. Homer’s invention. 

D. His characters. 

a. The dramatic method considered. 






LECT. XLIV.] 


LUCAN’S PHARSALIA. 


m b. 


b. Helen—Paris—Achilles. 

c. The machinery. 

e. The style. 

f. The narration—description—similes. 
2. The Odyssey. 

a. Its excellences and its defects. 

Virgil—the ./Eneid. 

1. Its excellences. 


a. The subject. 

e. The unity of the action. 

c. Its tenderness. 

2. Its defects. 

a. The characters. 

b. The management of the subject. 

c. The battles. 

Homer and Virgil compared. 


LECTURE XLIV. 

LUCAN’S PHARSALI A—TASSO’S JERUSALEM.—CA- 
MOENS' LUSIAD.—FENELON’S TELEMACHUS.—VOL¬ 
TAIRE’S HENRIADE.—MILTON’S PARADISE LOST. 

After Homer and Virgil, the next great epic poet of ancient 
times, who presents himself, is Lucan. He is a poet who deserves 
our attention, on account of a very peculiar mixture of great beau¬ 
ties, with great faults. Though his Pharsalia discover too little in¬ 
vention, and be conducted in too historical a manner, to be account¬ 
ed a perfectly regular epic poem, yet it were the mere squeamishness 
of criticism, to exclude it from the epic class. The boundaries, as 
I formerly remarked, are far from being ascertained by any such pre¬ 
cise limit, that we must refuse the epic name to a poem, which 
treats of great and heroic adventures, because it is not exactly con¬ 
formable to the plans of Homer and Virgil. The subject of the 
Pharsalia carries, undoubtedly, all the epic grandeur and dignity ; 
neither does it want unity of object, viz. the triumph of Caesar over 
the Roman liberty. As it stands at present, it is, indeed, brought 
to no proper close. Hut either time has deprived us of the last books, 
or it has been left by the author an incomplete work. 

Though Lucan’s subject be abundantly heroic, yet I cannot reck¬ 
on him happy in the choice of it. It has two defects. The one is, 
that civil wars, especially when as fierce and cruel as those of the 
Romans, present too many shocking objects to be fit for epic poetry, 
and give odious and disgusting views of human nature. Gallant and 
honourable achievements furnish a more proper theme for the epic 
muse. But Lucan’s genius, it must be confessed, seems to delight 
in savage scenes ; he dwells upon them too much ; and not content 
with those which his subject naturally furnished, he goes out of his 
way to introduce a long episode of Marius and Sylla’s proscriptions, 
which abounds with all the forms of atrocious cruelty. 

The other defect of Lucan’s subject is, its being too near the 
times in which he lived. This is a circumstance, as I observed in a 
former lecture, always unfortunate fora poet ; as it deprives him of 
the assistance of fiction and machinery, and thereby renders his work 
less splendid and amusing. Lucan has submitted to this disadvan¬ 
tage of his subject; and in doing so, he has acted with more pro¬ 
priety than if he had made an unseasonable attempt to embellish it 
with machinery ; for the fables of the gods would have made a very 





494 


THE PHARSALIA OF LUCAN, [lect. xliv. 


unnatural mixture with the exploits of Caesar and Pompey ; and in¬ 
stead of raising, would have diminished the dignity of such recent 
and well-known facts. 

With regard to characters, Lucan draws them with spirit, and with 
force. But though Pompey be his professed hero, he does not suc¬ 
ceed in interesting us much in his favour. Pompey is not made to 
possess any high distinction, either for magnanimity in sentiment, or 
bravery in action; but,on the contrary, is always eclipsed by the su¬ 
perior abilities of Csesar. Cato is, in truth, Lucan’s favourite charac¬ 
ter ; and wherever he introduces him, he appears to rise above him¬ 
self. Some of the noblest and most conspicuous passages in the 
work, are such as relate to Cato ; either speeches put into his mouth, 
or descriptions of his behaviour. His speech in particular to Labi- 
cnus, who urged him to inquire at the oracle of Jupiter Ammon, con¬ 
cerning the issue of the war, (book ix, 564.) deserves to be remark¬ 
ed, as equal, for moral sublimity, to any thing that is to be found in 
all antiquity. 

In the conduct of the story, our author has attached himself too 
much to chronological order. This renders the thread of his narra¬ 
tion broken and interrupted, and makes him hurry us too often from 
place to place. He is too digressive also ; frequently turning aside 
from his subject, to give us, sometimes, geographical descriptions of 
a country; sometimes,philosophical disquisitions concerning natural 
objects; as, concerning the African serpents in the ninth book, and 
the sources of the Nile in the tenth. 

There are in the Pharsalia several very poetical and spirited de¬ 
scriptions. But the author’s chief strength does not lie either in 
narration or description. His narration is often dry and harsh; 
his descriptions are often over-wrought, and employed too upon 
disagreeable objects. His principal merit consists in his sentiments, 
which are generally noble and striking, and expressed in that glow¬ 
ing and ardent manner, which peculiarly distinguishes him. Lucan 
is the most philosophical and the most public-spirited poet of all 
untiquity. He was the nephew of the famous Seneca, the philo¬ 
sopher; was himself a stoic; and the spirit of that philosophy 
breathes throughout his poem. We must observe too, that he is the 
only ancient epic poet whom the subject of his poem really and 
deeply interested. Lucan recounted no fiction. He was a Roman, 
and had felt all the direful effects of the Roman civil wars, and of 
that severe despotism which succeeded the loss of liberty. His high 
and bold spirit made him enter deeply into this subject, and kin¬ 
dle, on many occasions, into the most real warmth. Hence, he 
abounds in exclamations and apostrophes, which are, almost al¬ 
ways, well-timed, and supported with a vivacity and fire that do him 
no small honour. 

But it is the fate of this poet, that his beauties can never be men¬ 
tioned without their suggesting his blemishes also. As his princi¬ 
pal excellency is a lively and glowing genius, which appears, some¬ 
times in his descriptions, and very often in his sentiments, his great 
defect in both is, want of moderation. He carries every thing to 


lect. XLIV.] THE PHARSALIA OF LUCAN. 


495 


an extreme. He knows not where to stop. From an effort to ag¬ 
grandize his objects, he becomes tumid and unnatural : and it fre¬ 
quently happens, that where the second line of one of his descrip¬ 
tions is sublime, the third, in which he meant to rise still higher, is 
perfectly bombast Lucan lived in an age when the schools of the 
declaimers had begun to corrupt the eloquence and taste of Rome. 
He was not free from the infection ; and too often, instead of show¬ 
ing the genius of the poet, betrays the spirit of the declaimer. 

On the whole, however, he is an author of lively and original 
genius. His sentiments are so high, and his fire, on occasions, so 
great, as to atone for many of his defects; and passages may be pro¬ 
duced from him, which are inferior to none in any poet whatever. 
The characters, for instance, which he draws of Pompey and Cae¬ 
sar, in the first book, are masterly ; and the comparison of Pompey 
to the aged decaying oak, is highly poetical: 

-totus popularibus auris 

Impelh, plausuque sui gaudere theatri; 

Nec reparare novas vires, multumque priori 
Credere fortunes ; stat magni nominis umbra. 

Q« alis, frug'ifero quercus sublimis in agro, 

Kxuvias veteres populi sacrataque gestans 
Dona ducum ; nec jam validis radicibus haerens, 

Pondere fixa suo est, nudosque per aera ramos 
Effundens, trunco, non frondibus, efficit umbram. 

At, quamvis pt imo nutet casura sub Euro, 

Et circum silvae firmo se robore tollant, 

Sola tamen colitur. Sed non in Caesare tantum 
Nomen erat, nec fama ducis, sed nescia virtus 
Stare loco, solnsque pudor non vincere bello; 

Acer et indomitus *- E. i, 132. 

But when we consider the whole execution of his poem, we are. 
obliged to pronounce, that his poetical fire was not under the 
government of either sound judgment or correct taste. His genius 
had strength, but not tenderness; nothing of what might be called 
amenity, or sweetness. In his style there is abundance of force; 
but a mixture of harshness, and frequently of obscurity, occasioned 
by his desire of expressing himself in a pointed and unusual man* 
ner. Compared with Virgil, he may he allowed to have more fire 
and higher sentiments, but in every thing else, falls infinitely below 
him. particularly in purity, elegance, and tenderness. 


* With gifts and liberal bounty sought for fame, 
And lov’d to hear the vulgar shout his name ; 
In his own theatre rejoic’d to sit, 

Amidst the noisy praises of the pit. 

Careless of future ills that might betide, 

No aid he sought to prop his falling side, 

But on his former fortune much rely’d. 

Still seem’d he to possess, and fill his place; 
But stood the shadow of what once he was. 
3o, in the field with Ceres’ bounty spread, 
Uprears some ancient oak his rev’rend head 
Chaplets and sacred gifts his boughs adorn, 
And spoils of war by mighty heroes worn ; 




TASSO’S JERUSALEM. 


4M 


[lect. xliv. 


As Statius and Silius Italicus, though they be poets of the epic 
class, are too inconsiderable for particular criticism, 1 proceed next 
to Tasso, the most distinguished epic poet in modern ages. 

His Jerusalem Delivered was published in the year 1574. It is 
a poem regularly and strictly epic in its whole construction ; and 
adorned with all the beauties that belong to that species of compo¬ 
sition. The subject is, the recovery of Jerusalem from the infi¬ 
dels, by the united powers of Christendom ; which, in itself, and 
more especially according to the ideas of Tasso’s age, was a splen¬ 
did, venerable, and heroic enterprise. The opposition of the Chris¬ 
tians to the Saracens, forms an interesting contrast. The subject 
produces none of those fierce and shocking scenes of civil discord, 
which hurt the mind in Lucan; but exhibits the efforts of zeal and 
bravery, inspired by an honourable object. The share which reli¬ 
gion possesses in the enterprise, both tends to render it more au¬ 
gust, and opens a natural field for machinery, and sublime descrip¬ 
tion. The action, too, lies in a country, and at a period of time, 
sufficiently remote to allow an intermixture of fabulous tradition 
and fiction with true history. 

In the conduct of the story, Tasso has shown a rich and fertile 
invention, which, in a poet, is a capital quality. He is full of events; 
and those,too,abundantly various, and diversified in their kind. He 
never allows us to be tired by mere war and fighting. He frequently 
shifts the scene ; and, from camps and battles, transports us to more 
pleasing objects. Sometimes the solemnities of religion; some¬ 
times the intrigues of love; at other times, the adventures of 
a journey, or even the incidents of pastoral life, relieve and enter¬ 
tain the reader. At the same time, the whole work is artfully con¬ 
nected ; and while there is much variety in the parts, there is per¬ 
fect unity in the plan. The recovery of Jerusalem is the object 
kept in view through the whole, and with it the poem closes. All 
the episodes, if we except that of Olindo and Sophronia, in the 
second book, on which I formerly passed a censure, are sufficiently 
related to the main subject of the poem. 


But the first vigour of his root now gone, 

He stands dependent on his weight alone ; 

All bare his naked branches are display’d, 

And with his leafless trunk he forms a shade. 

Yet, though the winds his ruin daily threat, 

As every blast would heave him from his seat; 

Though thousand fairer trees the field supplies, 

That, rich in youthful verdure, round him rise, 

Fix’d in his ancient seat, he yields to none, 

And wears the honours of the grove alone. 

But Caesar’s greatness, and his strength, was more 
Than past renown and antiquated power ; 

’Twas not the fame of what he once had been, 

Or tales in old records or annals seen ; 

But ’twas a valour restless, unconfin’d, 

Which no success could sate, nor limits bind ; 

'Twas shame, a soldier’s shame, untaught to yield, 

That blush’d for nothing but an ill-fought field.—Rom:. 




LECT. XLIV.] 


TASSO’S JERUSALEM. 


497 


The poem is enlivened with a variety of characters, and those too 
both clearly marked and well supported. Godfrey, the leader of 
the enterprise, prudent, moderate, brave; Tancred, amorous, gene¬ 
rous, and gallant, and well contrasted with the fierce and brutal Ar- 
gantes; Rinaldo, (who is properly the hero of the poem, and is in 
part copied after Homer’s Achilles,) passionate and resentful, seduc¬ 
ed by the allurements of Armida; but a personage, on the whole, 
of much zeal, honour, and heroism. The brave and high-minded 
Solyman, the tender Erminia, the artful and violent Armida, the 
masculine Clorinda, are all of them well drawn and animated 
figures. In the characteristical part, Tasso is indeed remarkably dis¬ 
tinguished; he is, in this respect, superior to Virgil; and yields to 
no poet except Homer. 

He abounds very much with machinery; and in this part of the 
work his merit is more dubious Wherever celestial beings are made 
to interpose, his machinery is noble. God looking down upon the 
hosts, and, on different occasions, sending an angel to check the Pa¬ 
gans, and to rebuke the evil spirits, produces a sublime effect. The 
description of hell too, with the appearance and speech of Satan, in 
the beginning of the 4th book, is extremely striking; and plainly has 
been imitated by Milton, though he must be allowed to have im¬ 
proved upon it. But the devils, the enchanters, and the conjurors, 
act too great a part throughout Tasso’s poem; and form a sort of 
dark and gloomy machinery, not pleasing to the imagination. The 
enchanted wood, on which the nodus, or intrigue of the poem, is 
made in a great measure to depend; the messengers sent in quest 
of Rinaldo, in order that he may break the charm ; their being con¬ 
ducted by a hermit to a cave in the centre of the earth; the won¬ 
derful voyage which they make to the fortunate islands; and their 
recovering Rinaldo from "the charms of Armida and voluptuousness; 
are scenes which, though very amusing, and described with the high¬ 
est beauty of poetry, yet must be confessed to carry the marvellous 
to a degree of extravagance. 

In general, that for which Tasso is most liable to censure, is a 
certain romantic vein, which runs through many of the adventures 
and incidents of his poem. The objects which he presents to us, 
are always great; but, sometimes, too remote from probability. 
He retains somewhat of the taste of his age, which was not reclaimed 
from an extravagant admiration of the stories of knight-errantry; 
stories, which the wild, but rich and agreeable imagination of Arios¬ 
to, had raised into fresh reputation. In apology, however, for Tasso, 
it may be said, that he is not more marvellous and romantic than 
either Homer or Virgil. All the difference is, that in the one we 
find the romance of paganism, in the other, that of chivalry. 

With all the beauties of description, and of poetical style, Tasso 
remarkably abounds. Both his descriptions and his style are much 
diversified, and well suited to each other. In describing magnificent 
objects, his style is firm and majestic; when he descends to gay and 
pleasing ones, such as Erminia’s pastoral retreat in the seventh book, 
4 G 63 


49S ORLANDO FURIOSO OF ARIOSTO, [lect. xliv. 

and the arts and beauty of Armida in the fourth book, it is soft and 
insinuating. Both those descriptions which I have mentioned, are 
exquisite in their kind. His battles are animated, and very properly 
varied in the incidents; inferior however to Homer’s, in point of 
spirit and fire. 

In his sentiments, Tasso is not so happy as in his descriptions. It 
is indeed rather by actions, characters, and descriptions, that he in¬ 
terests us, than by the sentimental part of the work. He is far infe¬ 
rior to Virgil in tenderness. When he aims at being pathetic and 
sentimental in his speeches, he is apt to become artificial and strained. 

V\ ith regard to points and conceits, with which he has often been 
reproached, the censure has been carried too far. Affectation is by 
no means the general character of Tasso’s manner, which, upon the 
whole, is masculine, strong, and correct On some occasions, indeed, 
especially, as I just now observed, when he seeks to be tender, he 
degenerates into forced and unnatural ideas; but these are far from 
being so frequent or common as has been supposed. Threescore 
or fourscore lines retrenched from the poem, would fully clear it, I 
am persuaded, of all such exceptionable passages. 

With Boileau, Dacier, and the other French' critics of the last a°-e 
the humour prevailed of decrying Tasso; and passed from them to 
some of the English writers. But one would be apt to imagine, they 
were not much acquainted with Tasso; or at least they must have read 
him under the influence of strong prejudices. For to me it appears 
clear, that the Jerusalem is, in rank and dignity, the third regular 
epic poem in the world; and comes next to the Iliad and iEneid. 

Tasso may be justly held inferior to Homer, in simplicity and in 
fire; to Virgil, in tenderness; to Milton, in daring sublimity of geni¬ 
us; but he yields to no other in any poetical talents; and for fertility 
of invention, variety of incidents, expression of characters, richness 
of description, and beauty of style, I know no poet, except the three 
just named, that can be compared to him. 

Ariosto, the great rival of Tasso in Italian poetry, cannot, with any 
propriety, be classed among the epic writers. The fundamental 
rule of epic composition is, to recount an heroic enterprise, and to 
form it into a regular story. Though there is a sort of unity and 
connexion in the plan of Orlando Furioso, yet, instead of rendering 
this apparent to the reader, it seems to have been the author’s in¬ 
tention to keep it out of view by the desultory manner in which the 
poem is carried on, and the perpetual interruptions of the several 
stories before they are finished. Ariosto appears to have despised all 
regularity of plan, and to have chosen to give loose reins to a copious 
and rich, but extravagant fancy. At the same time, there is so much 
epic matter in the Orlando Furioso, that it would be improper to 
pass it by without some notice. It unites, indeed, all sorts of poetry * 
sometimes comic and satiric; sometimes light and licentious: at 
other times, highly heroic, descriptive, and tender. Whatever strain 
. e P oe * assumes > he excels in it. He is always master of his sub¬ 
ject; seems himself to play with it; and leaves us sometimes at a 
loss to know whether he be serious or in jest. He is seldom dra- 


1.ECY. XLIV.] 


CAMOENS* LUSIAD. 


499 


matic; sometimes, but not often, sentimental; but in narration and 
description, perhaps no poet ever went beyond him. He makes every 
scene which he describes, and every event which he relates, pass 
before our eyes; and in his selection of circumstances, is eminently 
picturesque. His style is much varied, always suited to the subject, 
and adorned with a remarkably smooth and melodious versification. 

As the Italians make their boast of Tasso, so do the Portuguese of 
Camoens; who was nearly contemporary with Tasso, but whose poem 
was published before the Jerusalem. The subject of it is the first 
discovery of the East Indies by Vasco de Gama; an enterprise 
splendid in its nature, and extremely interesting to the countrymen 
of Camoens, as it laid the foundation of their future wealth and con¬ 
sideration in Europe. The po^m opens with Vasco and his fleet ap¬ 
pearing on the ocean, between the island of Madagascar and the 
coast of ^Ethiopia. After various attempts to land on that coast, 
they are at last hospitably received in the kingdom of Melinda. 
Vasco, at the desire of the king, gives him an account of Europe, 
recites a poetical history of Portugal, and relates all the adventures 
of the voyage, which had preceded the opening of the poem. This 
recital takes up three cantos or books. It is well imagined ; contains 
a great many poetical beauties ; and has no defect, except that Vasco 
makes an unseasonable display of learning to the African prince, in 
frequent allusions to the Greek and Roman histories. Vasco and his 
countrymen afterwards set forth to pursue their voyage. The 
storms and distresses which they encounter; their arrival at Cale- 
cut, on the Malabar coast; their reception and adventures in that 
country, and at last their return homewards, fill up the rest of the 
poem. 

The whole work is conducted according to the epic plan. Both 
the subject and the incidents are magnificent; and, joined with some 
wildness and irregularity, there appear in the execution much poetic 
spirit, strong fancy, and bold description ; as far as I can judge from 
translations, without any knowledge of the original. There is no 
attempt towards painting characters in the poem ; Vasco is the hero, 
and the only personage indeed that makes any figure. 

The machinery of the Lusiad is perfectly extravagant; not only 
is it formed of a singular mixture of Christian ideas, and Pagan my¬ 
thology ; but it is so conducted, that the Pagan gods appear to be 
the true deities, and Christ and the Blessed Virgin, to be subordi¬ 
nate agents. One great scope of the Portuguese expedition, our 
author informs us, is to propagate the Christian faith, and to extir¬ 
pate Mahometanism. In this religious undertaking, the great pro¬ 
tector of the Portuguese is Venus, and their great adversary is Bac¬ 
chus, whose displeasure is excited by Vasco’s attempting to rival 
his fame in the Indies. Councils of the gods are held, in which Ju¬ 
piter is introduced as foretelling the downfall of Mahometanism, and 
the propagation of the Gospel. Vasco, in great distress from a storm, 
prays most seriously to God ; implores the aid of Christ and the 
Virgin, and begs for such assistance as was given to the Israelites, 
when they were passing through the Red Sea, and to the Apostle 


500 FENELON’S TELEMACHUS. [>ect. xliv. 

Paul, when he was in hazard of shipwreck. In return to this prayer, 
Venus appears, who, discerning the storm to be the work of Bac¬ 
chus, complains to Jupiter, and procures the winds to be calmed, 
ouch strange and preposterous machinery, shows how much authors 
have been misled by the absurd opinion, that there could be no epic 
poetry without the gods of Homer. Towards the end of the work, 
indeed, the author gives us an awkward salvo for his whole mytho¬ 
logy ; making the goddess Thetis inform Vasco, that she, and the 
rest of the heathen deities, are no more than names to describe the 
operations of Providence. 

T here is, however, some fine machinery, of a different, kind, in 
the Eusiacl. The genius of the river Ganges appearing to Emanuel, 
king of Portugal, in a dream, inviting that prince to discover his 
secret springs, and acquainting him, that he was the destined mon¬ 
arch tor whom the treasures of the East were reserved, is a happy 
idea. But the noblest conception of this sort, is in the fifth canto, 
where Vasco is recounting to the king of Melinda, all the wonders 
which he met with in his navigation. He tells him, that when the 
feet arnved at the Cape of Good Hope, which never before had been 
doubled by any navigator, there appeared to them, on a sudden, a 
huge and monstrous phantom, rising out of the sea, in the midst of 
tempests and thunders, with a head that reached the clouds, and a 
countenance that filled them with terror. This was the genius, or 
guardian, of that hitherto unknown ocean. It spoke to them with 
a voice like thunder; menacing them for invading those seas which 
he had so long possessed undisturbed ; and for daring to explore 
tho secrets of the deep, which never had been revealed to the eve 
ot : -rtals: required them to proceed no farther; if they should 
proceed, foretold all the successive calamities that were‘to befall 
them; and then, with a mighty noise, disappeared. This is one of 
the most solemn and striking pieces of machinery that ever was 
employed ; and is sufficient to show that Camoens is a poet, though 
of an irregular, yet of a bold and lofty imagination.* S 

In reviewing the epic poets, it were unjust to make no mention of 
the amiable author of the Adventures of Telemachus. His work 
though not composed in verse, is justly entitled to be held a poem! 
lhe measured poetical prose, m which it is written, is remarkably 
harmonious; and gives the style nearly as much elevation as the 
rench language is capable of supporting, even in regular verse. 

The plan of the work is, in general, well contrived ; and is de¬ 
ficient neither in epic grandeur, nor unity of object. The author 
has entered with much felicity into the spirit and ideas of the an¬ 
cient poets, particularly into the ancient mythology, which retains 
more dignity, and makes a better figure in his hands, than in those 
o any other modern poet. His descriptions are rich and beautiful; 

account ° f “ u ^ 



501 


x.ECT. sliv.] FENELON’S TELEMACHUS. 

especially of the softer and calmer scenes, for which the genius of 
Fenelon was best suited ; such as the incidents of pastoral life, the 
pleasures of virtue, or a country flourishing in peace. There is 
an inimitable sweetness and tenderness in several of the pictures 
of this kind which he has given. 

The best executed part of the work, is the first six books, in 
which relemachus recounts his adventures to Calypso. The nar¬ 
ration, throughout them, is lively and interesting. Afterwards, es¬ 
pecially in the last twelve books, it becomes more tedious and lan¬ 
guid ; and in the warlike adventures, which are attempted, there 
is a great defect of vigour. The chief objection against this work 
being classed with epic poems, arises from the minute details of 
virtuous policy, into which the author in some places enters; and 
from the discourses and instructions of Mentor, which recur upon 
us too often, and too much in the strain of common-place morality. 
Though these were well suited to the main design of the author, 
which was to form the mind of a young prince, yet they seem not 
congruous to the nature of epic poetry ; the object of which is to 
improve us by means of actions, characters, and sentiments, rather 
than by delivering professed and formal instruction. 

Several of the epic poets have described a descent into hell; and 
in the prospects they have given us of the invisible w*orld, we may 
observe the gradual refinement of men’s notions concerning a state 
of future rewards and punishments. The descent of Ulysses into 
hell, in Homer’s Odyssey, presents to us a very indistinct and dreary 
sort of object. The scene is laid in the country of the Cimmeri¬ 
ans, which is always covered with clouds and darkness, at the ex¬ 
tremity of the ocean. When the spirits of the dead begin to ap¬ 
pear. we scarcely know whether Ulysses is above ground or below 
it. None of the ghosts, even of the heroes, appear satisfied with 
their condition in the other world ; and when Ulysses endeavours 
to comfort Achilles, by reminding him of the illustrious figure 
which he must make in those regions, Achilles roundly tells him 
that all such speeches are idle; for he would rather be a day-labour¬ 
er on earth, than have the command of all the dead. 

In the sixth book of the iEneid, we discern a much greater re¬ 
finement of ideas, corresponding to the progress which the world 
had then made in philosophy. The objects there delineated, are 
both more clear and distinct, and more grand and awful. The se¬ 
parate mansions of good and of bad spirits, with the punishments 
of the one, and the employments and happiness of the other, are 
finely described, and in consistency with the most pure morality. 
But the visit which Fenelon makes Telemachus pay to the shades, 
is much more philosophical still than Virgil’s. He employs the same 
fables and the same mythology ; but weiind the ancient mythology 
refined by the knowledge of the true religion, and adorned with 
that beautiful enthusiasm, for which Fenelon was so distinguished. 
His account of the happiness of the just is an excellent description 
in the mystic strain; and very expressive of the genius and spirit 
of the author. 


502 VOLTAIRE’S HENRIADE. [lect. xliv. 

Voltaire has given us, in his Henriacle, a regular epic poem, in 
French verse. In every performance of that, celebrated writer, we 
may expect to find marks of genius ; and, accordingly, that work 
discovers, in several places, that boldness in the conceptions, and 
that liveliness and felicity in the expression, for which the author 
is so remarkably distinguished. Several of ihe comparisons, in 
particular, which occur in it, are both new and happy. But, con¬ 
sidered upon the whole, I cannot esteem it one of his chief pro¬ 
ductions; and am of opinion, that he has succeeded infinitely bet¬ 
ter m tragic than in epic composition. French versification seems ill 
adapted to epic poetry. Besides its being always fettered by rhyme 
the language never assumes a sufficient degree of elevation or ma¬ 
jesty ; and appears to be more capable of expressing the tender in 
tragedy, than of supporting the sublime in epic. Hence a feeble- 
ness, and sometimes a prosaic flatness, in the style of the Henriade- 
and whether from this, or from some other cause, the poem often 
languishes. It does not seize the imagination, nor interest and 
carry the reader along, with that ardour which ought to be inspired 
by a sublime and spirited epic poem. 

The subject of the Henriade is the triumph of Henry the Fourth 
over he arms of the League. The action of the poem properiy 
includes only the siege of Paris. It is an action perfectly epic in 
its nature; great, interesting, and conducted with a sufficient re- 

fhTd f T^Y-'k iVY ° ther Cntical ™ les - But il is liable to both 
the defects which I before remarked in Lucan’s Pharsalia It is 

founded wholly on civil wars; and presents to us those odious and 
detestable objects of massacres and assassinations, which throw a 
gloom over the poem. It is also, like Lucan’s, of too recent aXte 
and comes too much within the bounds of well-known history To 

YYY I ’'- last de , fcCt ’ ® ud t0 rem ove the appearance of bein- a 
mere historian, V oltaire has chosen to mix fiction with truth. The 
poem, for instance, opens with a voyage of Henry’s to England 
a d an interv.ew between him and Queen Elizabeth; though™’ 
one knows that Henry never was in England, and that these two 
illustrious personages never met. In facts of such public notorie- 
y,a fiction like this shocks the reader, and forms an unnatural and 
ill-sorted mixture with historical truth. The episode was contrived 

transactions ^f'The Y °PP ortum Y of recounting the former 
transactions ol the civil wars, in imitation of the recital wh.Vb 

ffidoT A? 10 Did0 J" the iEneid ‘ But the imitation wasinju- 
of wb-' l "F neas m .' s u ht > With propriety, relate to Dido transactions 
of which she was either entirely ignorant, or had arnmYeH „ i 
imperfect knowledge by Hying reports r YoY Yi ?' Y 
could not but be supposed toVpeXS^.pJ^te Sllf 
which the poet makes Henry recite to hel facts ’ 

In order to embellish his subject, Voltaire has rbnson i 

a great deal of machinery. But here also 7 lY nh a ! P ° y 
bis conduct; for the machinery wffichte cLeflv embW^ ° 

g . Discord ? cunning, and love, appear as personages, mix with 


tECT. xliv.] MILTON’S PARADISE LOST. 


503 


the human actors, and make a considerable figure in the intrigue of 
the poem. This is contrary to every rule of rational criticism. Ghosts, 
angels, and devils, have popular belief on their side, and may be con¬ 
ceived as existing. But every one knows, that allegorical beings are 
no more than representatives of human dispositions and passions. 
They may be employed like other personifications and figures of 
speech; or in a poem, that is wholly allegorical, they may occupy 
the chief place ; they are there in their native and proper region . 
But in a poem which relates to human transactions, as I had occasion 
before to remark, when such beings are described as acting along 
with men, the imagination is confounded ; it is divided between 
phantasms and realities, and knows not on what to rest. 

In justice, however, to our author, I must observe, that the machi¬ 
nery of St. Louis, which he also employs, is of a better kind, and 
possesses real dignity The finest passage in the Henriade, indeed 
one of the finest that occurs in any poem, is the prospect of the in¬ 
visible world, which St. Louis gives to Henry in a dream, in the se¬ 
venth canto : Death bringing the souls of the departed in succes¬ 
sion before God; their astonishment when, arriving from all different 
countries and religious sects, they are brought into the Divine pre¬ 
sence; when they find their superstitions to be false, and have the 
truth unveiled to them ; the palace of the Destinies opened to Hen¬ 
ry, and the prospect of his successors which is there given him: are 
striking and magnificent objects, and do honour to the genius of 
Voltaire. 

Though some of the episodes in this poem are properly exten¬ 
ded, yet the narration is, on the whole, too general; the events are 
too much crowded, and superficially related ; which is doubtless, one 
cause of the poem making a faint impression. The strain of senti¬ 
ment which runs through it, is high and noble. Religion appears, on 
every occasion, with great and proper lustre; and the author breathes 
that spirit of humanity and toleration, which is conspicuous in all 
his works. 

Milton, of whom it remains now to speak, has chalked out for 
himself a new and very extraordinary road in poetry. As soon as 
we open his Paradise Lost, we find ourselves introduced all at once 
into an invisible world, and surrounded with celestial and infernal 
beings. Angels and devils are not the machinery, but principal ac¬ 
tors, in the poem; and, what in any other composition would be the 
marvellous, is here only the natural course of events. A subject so 
remote from the affairs of this world, may furnish ground to those who 
think such discussions material, to bring it into doubt, whether Para¬ 
dise Lost can properly be classed among epic poems. By whatever 
name it is to be called, it is, undoubtedly, one of the highest efforts of 
poetical genius; and in one great characteristic of the epic poem, 
majesty and sublimity, it is fully equal to any that, bear that name. 

How far the author was altogether happy in the choice of his sub¬ 
ject, may be questioned. It has led him into very difficult ground. 
Had he taken a subject that was more human, and less theological; 


504 MILTON’S PARADISE LOST. [ LEC t. xliv. 

that was more connected with the occurrences of life, and afforded 
a greater display of the characters and passions of men, his poem 
would perhaps, have, to the bulk of readers, been more pleasing 
and attractive. But the subject which he has chosen, suited the 
daring sublimity of his genius * It is a subject for which Milton 
alone was fitted; and in the conduct of it, he has shown a stretch 
both ol imagination and invention, which isperfectly wonderful. Itis 
astonishing how, from the few hints given us in thesacred Scriptures, 
be was able to raise so complete and regular a structure, and to fill 
Ins poem with such a variety of incidents. Dry and harsh passa¬ 
ges sometimes occur. The author appears, upon some occasions, a 
metaphysician and a divine, rather than a poet. But the general 
tenourof his work is interesting; heseizesand fixes the imagination; 
engages, elevates, and affects us as we proceed; which is always a 
sure test of merit in an epic composition. The artful change of his 
objects; the scene laid now in earth, now in hell, and now in hea- 
ven, affords a sufficient diversity; while unity of plan is, at the same 
time, perfectly supported. We have still life, and calm scenes, in 
the employments of Adam and Eve in Paradise ; and we have busv 
scenes, and great actions, in the enterprise of Satan, and the wars 
OI the angels. 1 he innocence, purity, and amiableness of our first 
parents, opposed to the pride and ambition of Satan, furnishes a 
happy contrast, that reigns throughout the whole poem; only the 
conclusion, as I before observed, is too tragic for epic poetry. 

he nature of the subject did not admit any great display of cha¬ 
racters; but such as could be introduced, are supported with much 
£°P r ' e ‘ y - f atan ’ ln particular, makes a striking figure, and is, in¬ 
deed, the best drawn character in the poem. Milton has not describ¬ 
ed him such as we suppose an infernal spirit to be. He has more 
suitably to his own purpose, given him a human, that is, a mixed 
character, not altogether void of some good qualities. He is brave 
and faithful to his troops. In the midst of his impiety, he is not 
without remorse. He is even touched with pity for our first parents • 
and justifies himself m his design against them, from the necessity 
of his sduation. He is actuated by ambition and resentment, ra¬ 
ther than by pure malice. In short, Milton’s Satan is no worse than 
many a conspmator or factious chief, that makes a figure in history. 
Ihe different characters of Beelzebub, Moloch, Belial, are exceed¬ 
ingly well painted in those eloquent speeches which they make in 
the second book. Thegood angels, though alwaysdescribed with dig¬ 
nity and propriety. have more uniformity than the infernal spirits in 
their appearance; though among them, too, the dignity of Michael 
the mild condescension of Raphael, and the tried fidelity of Abdiel 
form proper• characteristic*! distinctions. The attempt to describe 
God Almighty himself, and to recount dialogues between the Father 

* “ He seems to have been well acquainted with his own genius and tn kno u * 

Dr. Johnson’s Ufe of Milton. 






LECT. XLIV,] MILTON’S PARADISE LOST. 


505 


and the Son, was too bold and arduous, and is that wherein our poet, 
as was to have been expected, has been most unsuccessful. With re¬ 
gard to his human characters, the innocence of our first parents, and 
their love, are finely and delicately painted. In some of his speeches 
to Raphael and to Eve, Adam is, perhaps, too knowing and refined 
for his situation. Eve is more distinctly characterized. Her gentle¬ 
ness, modesty, and frailty, mark very expressively a female character. 

Milton’s great and distinguishing excellence is, his sublimity. In 
this, perhaps, he excels Ilomer; as there is no doubt of his leaving 
Virgil, and every other poet, far behind him. Almost the whole of 
the first and second books of Paradise Lost, are continued instan¬ 
ces of the sublime. The prospect of hell and of the fallen host, 
the appearance and behaviour of Satan, the consultation of the in¬ 
fernal chiefs,and Satan’s flight through chaos to the borders of this 
world, discover the most lofty ideas that ever entered into the con¬ 
ception of any poet. In the sixth book, also, there is much grandeur, 
particularly in the appearance of the Messiah ; though some parts 
of that book are censurable; and the witticisms of the devils upon 
the effect of their artillery, form an intolerable blemish. Milton’s 
sublimity is of a different kind from that of Homer. Homer’s is 
generally accompanied with fire and impetuosity; Milton’s pos¬ 
sesses more of a calm and amazing grandeur. Homer warms and 
hurries us along; Milton fixes us in a state of astonishment and 
elevation. Homer’s sublimity appears most in the description of 
actions; Milton’s, in that of wonderful and stupendous objects. 

But though Milton is most distinguished for his sublimity, yet 
there is also much of the beautiful, the tender, and the pleasing, in 
many parts of his work. When the scene is laid in Paradise, the 
imagery is always of the most gay and smiling kind. His descrip¬ 
tions show an uncommonly fertile imagination ; and in his similes, 
he is, for the most part, remarkably happy. They are seldom im¬ 
properly introduced ; seldom either low or trite. They generally 
present to us images taken from the sublime or the beautiful class 
of objects ; if they have any faults, it is their alluding too frequent¬ 
ly to matters of learning, and to fables of antiquity. In the latter 
part of Paradise Lost, there must be confessed to be a falling off. 
With the fall of our first parents, Milton’s genius seems to decline. 
Beauties, however, there are, in the concluding books, of the tra¬ 
gic kind. The remorse and contrition of the guilty pair, and their 
lamentations over Paradise, when they are obliged to leave it, are 
very moving. The last episode, of the angel’s showing Adam the 
fate of his posterity, is happily imagined ; but, in many places, the 
execution is languid. 

Milton’s language and versification have high merit. His style 
is full of majesty, and wonderfully adapted to his subject. His blank 
verse is harmonious and diversified, and affords the most complete 
example of the elevation which our language is capable of attaining 
by the force of numbers. It does not flow, like the French verse, 
in tame, regular, uniform melody, which soon tires the ear: but is 
4 D 64 


506 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect. xliv. 


sometimes smooth and flowing, sometimes rough ; varied in its ca¬ 
dence, and intermixed with discords, so as to suit the strength and 
freedom of epic composition. Neglected and prosaic lines, indeed, 
we sometimes meet with; but, in a work so long, and in the main 
so harmonious, these may be forgiven. 

On the whole, Paradise Lost is a poem that abounds with beauties 
of every kind, and that justly entitles its author to h degree of fame 
not inferior to any poet; though it must be also admitted to have 
many inequalities. It is the lot of almost every high and daring genius, 
not to be uniform and correct. Milton is too frequently theological 
and metaphysical; sometimes harsh in his language ; often too tech¬ 
nical in his words, and affectedly ostentatious of his learning. Many 
of his faults must be attributed to the pedantry of the age in which 
he lived. He discovers a vigour, a grasp of genius, equal to every 
thing that is great; if, at some times, he falls much below himself, at 
other times he rises above every poet of the ancient or modern world. 


After Homer and Virgil, who is 
the next great epic poet of ancient 
times ? Why does he deserve atten¬ 
tion ? Of his Pharsalia, what is obser¬ 
ved? What was formerly remarked ? 
What does the subject of the Pharsalia 
carry ? What does it not want ? As it 
stands at present, what is said of it; 
but what follows ? Of Lucan’s subject, 
what is remarked ? Of its two defects, 
what is the first ? What furnish a more 
proper theme for the epic muse ? But 
of Lucan’s genius, what must be con¬ 
fessed? What is the other defect of 
the subject ? Why is this always un¬ 
fortunate for a poet? What remark 
follows ? How are Lucan’s characters 
drawn ? Of Pompey, what is observed; 
and by whom is he always eclipsed ? 
What is said of Cato; and of his speech 
to Labienus, what is observed? In the 
conduct of the story, to what has our 
author too much attached himself; and 
Avhat is the effect of this ? From what 
does it appear that he is too digressive 
also ? What are there in the Pharsa¬ 
lia ; but in what does our author’s chief 
strength lie ? Of his narration, and of 
his descriptions, what is observed ? In 
what does his principal merit consist; 
and what is said of them ? In what does 
Lucan surpass all the poets of antiqui¬ 
ty ; and of him, what is farther obser¬ 
ved ? What must we, also, observe ? 
How is this remark illustrated ? Hence, 
in what does he abound, and of them,, 


what is remarked ? But what is the 
fate of this poet ? How is this illustra¬ 
ted ? In what age did Lucan live, and 
what was the consequence ? On the 
whole, he is an author possessing what? 
What atone for many of his defects; 
and from him, what may be produced ? 
What instances are given, illustrative 
of this remark ? Repeat the passage in 
which Pompey is compared to the an¬ 
cient decaying oak. But when we con¬ 
sider the whole execution of his poem, 
what are we obliged to pronounce? 
What had his genius; but of what was 
it destitute ? Of his style, what is ob¬ 
served? How does he compare with 
Virgil ? To whom does our author next 
proceed; why; and what is said of 
him ? When was his Jerusalem Deli¬ 
vered published; and what is said of 
it? What is the subject of it; and of 
this enterprise, what is remarked? 
What forms an interesting contrast? 
What does the subject not produce; 
but what does it exhibit ? What is ob¬ 
served of the share which religion pos¬ 
sesses in the enterprise ; and of the ac¬ 
tion, also, what is remarked ? In the 
conduct of the story, what has Tasso 
shown ? How is this illustrated ? At 
the same time, of the whole work, 
what is observed ? What remark fol¬ 
lows ? What is remarked of the epi¬ 
sodes ? With what is the poem enliven¬ 
ed ; and of them, what is remarked ? 
How is this remark illustrated? Of 








lect. xliv.] 


QUESTIONS. 


0O6 a 


Tasso, in the charaeteristical part, 
what is observed ? What is said of his 
machinery ? When is it noble; and 
what instances are given ? But what 
act too great a part throughout the 
poem ; and form what ? What scenes, 
must it be confessed, carry the mar¬ 
vellous to a degree of extravagance ? 
In general, to what is Tasso most lia¬ 
ble to censure ? What illustration of 
this remark follows ? What apology, 
however, may be offered for him 7 Be¬ 
tween them, what difference is there? 
VVith what beauties does Tasso re¬ 
markably abound 7 Of both his de¬ 
scriptions and his style, what is obser¬ 
ved 7 How is this remark illustrated ? 
What is said of both of the descriptions 
which have been mentioned? Of his 
battles, what is remarked? In what is 
Tasso not so happy as in his descrip¬ 
tions ; and by what is it that he inte¬ 
rests us ? In what is he far inferior to 
Virgil; and when is he apt to become 
artificial and strained ? What censure 
has been carried too far ? What re¬ 
marks follow; and what would fully 
clear it of all such exceptionable passa¬ 
ges ? What critics have decried Tas¬ 
so ? But what would one be apt to ima¬ 
gine ; and why ? In what may Tasso 
be held inferior to Homer, in what to 
Virgil, and in what to Milton? In what 
is he inferior to no poet, the three just 
mentioned excepted ? Why cannot 
Ariosto, with propriety, be classed 
among epic writers ? What does Arios¬ 
to appear to have despised; and to 
have chosen what ? At the same time, 
what does his poem contain ? Of Ari¬ 
osto, and of his Orlando Furioso, what 
is farther observed ? 

As the Italians make their boast of 
Tasso, of whom do the Portuguese 
boast, and of him, what is observed ? 
What is the subject of it ? Of the enter¬ 
prise, what is remarked ; and why was 
it interesting to Camoen’s countrymen? 
How does the poem open; and what 
follows ? Of this recital, what is obser¬ 
ved; and what fill up the rest of the 
poem ? From what does it appear that 
the whole work is conducted according 
to the epic plan? Towards what is 
there no attempt; and who is the hero ? 
What is observed of the machinery of 
the Lusiad; and how does this appear ? 
What was one great scope of the expe¬ 
dition ; and what fohows ? What salvo 
does the author give towards the end 


of the work, for liis whole mythology ? 
What fine machinery,, however, of a 
different kind, is there in the Lusiad ? 
But what is the noblest conceptions of 
this sort ? What does he tell him ? Of 
this piece of machinery, what is re¬ 
marked ? In reviewing the epic poets, 
to make no mention of whom, were un¬ 
just 7 Why is his work entitled to be 
held a poem ? What is said of the plan 
of it? Into what has the author 
entered with much felicity; and in 
this, how does he compare with other 
modern poets? Of his descriptions, 
what is observed ? Which is the best 
executed part of the work; and why ? 
Of the last twelve books, and of the 
warlike adventures, what is remark¬ 
ed ? From what does the chief objec¬ 
tion against this work being classed 
with epic poems, arise; and of these, 
what is observed ? What have several 
of the epic poets described ; and in the 
prospects they have given us of the 
invisible world, what may we observe ? 
Illustrate this remark from Homer; 
from Virgil; and from Fenelon? What 
has Voltaire, in his Henriade, given 
us ? As in every performance of that 
celebrated writer, we may expect to 
find marks of genius, what follows? 
Several of what, particularly, are both 
new and happy ? What remarks fol¬ 
low 7 Why is French versification illy 
adapted to epic poetry ? Hence, what 
follows ? What does it not do ? What 
is the subject of the poem? What does 
the action properly include ; and of it, 
what is observed ? But to what defects 
is it liable ; and how is this illustrated ? 
To remedy this last defect, what has 
Voltaire done, and what instance is 
given ? What remark follows; and 
why was this episode contrived? But 
why was the imitation injudicious? 
What are the general remarks on the 
machinery employed by Voltaire ? In 
justice, however, to our author, what 
must be observed ? Illustrate this re¬ 
mark. What is one reason why this 
poem makes a faint impression ? Of 
the strain of sentiment which runs 
through it, what is observed? How 
does religion appear, and what spirit 
does the author breathe? What has 
Milton done ? How it this illustrated ? 
Of his subject, what is remarked; but 
what follows ? What may be ques¬ 
tioned ; and why ? But the subject 
which he has chosen suited what: and 



oOfi b 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect. xlv. 


in the conduct of it, what has lie 
shown ? What is a matter of astonish¬ 
ment ; and what remarks follow ? 
What did not the nature of the subject 
admit ? Repeat the description of Sa¬ 
tan. Of Belzebub, Moloch, and Belial, 
what is remarked; and, what is also 
said of the good angels? In what, 
however, has he been unsuccessful? 
With regard to his human characters, 
what is observed ? Where is Adam too 
knowing, and too refined for his situa¬ 
tion ; but what is said of Eve ? Of Mil¬ 
ton’s sublimity, what is remarked ? Al¬ 
most the whole of what books are con¬ 
tinued instances of the sublime; and 
what examples are given? What is 
sa id of the sixth book ? How does Mil¬ 
ton’s sublimity compare with that of 
Homer? What other excellences does 
Milton possess ? How is this remark il¬ 
lustrated ? Where is there a falling off; 
and with what does Milton’s genius 
seem to decline ? But what beauties of 
the tragic kind are there in the con¬ 


cluding books? Of the last episode, 
what is observed? What isthe charac¬ 
ter of his style; and of his blank verse, 
what is remarked? Repeat the closing 
paragraph. 

ANALYSIS. 

1. Lucan’s Pharsalia. 

a. The subject defective. 

b. The characters spiritedly drawn. 

c. The narration considered. 

2. Tasso’s Jerusalem Delivered. 

a. The subject—the narration. 

b. The characters. 

a. The machinery. 

3. Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso. 

4. Camoen’s Lusiad. 

a. The subject—the narration. 

b. The machinery considered. 

5. Fenelon’s Telemachus. 

a. The character of the work. 

6. Voltaire’s Henriade. 

a. The subject—the narration. 

b. The machinery. 

7. Milton’s Paradise Lost. 

a. The subject—the characters. 

b. The sublimity—the tenderness. 

c. The style ana versification. 


LECTURE XLV. 



DRAMATIC POETRY—TRAGEDY. 

Dramatic poetry has, among all civilized nations, been considered 
as a rational and useful entertainment, and judged worthy of careful 
and serious discussion. According as it is employed upon the light 
and the gay, or upon the grave and affecting incidents of human life, 
it divides itself into the two forms, of comedy or tragedy. But as 
great and serious objects command more attention than little and 
ludicrous ones ; as the fall of a hero interests the public more than 
the marriage of a private person ; tragedy has always been held a 
more dignified entertainment than comedy. The one rests upon the 
high passions, the virtues, crimes, and sufferings of mankind. The 
other on their humours, follies, and pleasures. Terror and pity are 
the great instruments of the former; ridicule is the sole instrument 
of the latter. Tragedy shall, therefore, be the object of our fullest 
discussion. This and the following lecture shall be employed on it; 
after which, I shall treat of what is peculiar to comedy. 

Tragedy, considered as an exhibition of the characters and beha¬ 
viour of men, in some of the most trying and critical situations of 
life, is a noble idea of poetry. It is a direct imitation of human 
manners and actions. For it does not, like the epic poem, exhibit 
characters by the narration and description of the poet; but the 
poet disappears; and the personages themselves are set before us, 
acting and speaking what is suitable to their characters. Hence, 
no kind of writing is so great a trial of the author’s profound know¬ 
ledge of the human heart. No kind of writing has so much power, 
when happily executed, to raise the strongest emotions. It is, or 







LECT. XLV.] 


TRAGEDY. 


507 


ought to be, a mirror in which we behold ourselves, and the evils 
to which we are exposed; a faithful copy of the human passions, with 
all their direful effects, when they are suffered to become extrava¬ 
gant- 

As tragedy is a high and distinguished species of composition, so 
also, in its general strain and spirit, it is favourable to virtue. Such 
power hath virtue happily over the human mind, by the wise and 
gracious constitution of our nature, that as admiration cannot be 
raised in epic poetry, so neither in tragic poetry can our passions be 
strongly moved, unless virtuous emotions be awakened within us. 
Every poet finds, that it is impossible to interest us in any character, 
without representing that character as worthy and honourable, 
though it may not be perfect; and that the great secret for raising 
indignation, is to paint the person who is to be the object of it, 
in the colours of vice and depravity. He may, indeed, nay, he 
must, represent the virtuous as sometimes unfortunate, because this 
is often the case in real life; but he will always study to engage our 
hearts in their behalf; and though they may be described as un- 
prosperous, yet there is no instance of a tragic poet representing 
vice as fully triumphant, and happy, in the catastrophe of the piece. 
Even when bad men succeed in their designs, punishment is made 
always to attend them ; and misery of one kind or other is shown 
to be unavoidably connected with guilt. Love and admiration of 
virtuous characters, compassion for the injured and the distressed, 
and indignation against the authors of their sufferings, are the senti¬ 
ments most generally excited by tragedy. And, therefore, though 
dramatic writers may sometimes, like other writers, be guilty of im¬ 
proprieties, though they may fail of placing virtue precisely in the 
due point of light, yet no reasonable person can deny tragedy to be 
a moral species of composition. Taking tragedies complexly, l am 
fully persuaded, that the impressions left by them upon the mind 
are, on the whole, favourable to virtue and good dispositions. And, 
therefore, the zeal which some pious men have shown against the 
entertainments of the theatre, must rest only upon the abuse of co¬ 
medy; which, indeed, has frequently been so great as to justify 
very severe censures against it. 

The account which Aristotle gives of the design of tragedy is, 
that it is intended to purge our passions by means of pity and ter¬ 
ror. This is somewhat obscure. Various senses have been put 
upon his words, and much altercation has followed among his com¬ 
mentators. Without entering into any controversy upon this head, 
the intention of tragedy may, I think, be more shortly and clearly defi¬ 
ned, to improve our virtuous sensibility. If an author interests us in 
behalf of virtue, forms us to compassion for the distressed, inspires 
us with proper sentiments on beholding the vicissitudes of life, and, 
by means of the concern which he raises for the misfortunes of 
others, leads us to guard against errors in our own conduct, he ac¬ 
complishes all the moral purposes of tragedy. 

In order to this end, the first requisite is, that he choose some 
moving and interesting story, and that he conduct it in a natural 


508 


TRAGEDY. 


[lect. xlv. 


and probable manner. For we must observe, that the natural and 
the probable must always be the basis of tragedy ; and are infinitely 
more important there, than in epic poetry. The object of the epic 
poet, is to excite our admiration by the recital of heroic adventures; 
and a much slighter degree of probability is required when admira¬ 
tion is concerned, than when the tender passions are intended to be 
moved. The imagination, in the former case, is exalted, accommo¬ 
dates itself to the poet’s idea, and can admit the marvellous with¬ 
out being shocked. But tragedy demands a stricter imitation of 
the life and actions of men. For the end which it pursues is not so 
much to elevate the imagination, as to affect the heart; and the heart 
always judges more nicely than the imagination, of what is probable. 
Passion can be raised, only by making the impressions of nature and 
of truth upon the mind. By introducing, therefore, any wild or ro¬ 
mantic circumstances into his stbry, the poet never fails to check 
passion in its growth, and, of course, disappoints the main effect of 
tragedy. 

This principle, which is founded on the clearest reason, excludes 
from tragedy all machinery, or fabulous intervention of the gods. 
Ghosts have, indeed, maintained their place; as being strongly found¬ 
ed on popular belief, and peculiarly suited to heighten the terror of 
tragic scenes. But all unravellings of the plot which turn upon the 
interposition of deities, such as Euripides employs in several of his 
plays, are much to be condemned; both as clumsy and inartificial, and 
as destroying the probability of the story. This mixture of machinery 
with the tragic action is, undoubtedly, a blemish in the ancient 
theatre. 

In order to promote that impression of probability which is so 
necessary to the success of tragedy, some critics have required, 
that the subject should never be a pure fiction invented by the 
poet, but built on real history or known facts. Such, indeed, were 
generally, if not always, the subjects of the Greek tragedians. But 
I cannot hold this to be a matter of any great consequence. It is 
proved by experience, that a fictitious tale, if properly conducted, 
will melt the heart as much as any real history. In order to our 
being moved, itis not necessary, that the events related did actually 
happen, provided they be such as might easily have happened in 
the ordinary course of nature. Even when tragedy borrows its mate¬ 
rials from history, it mixes many a fictitious circumstance. The great¬ 
est part of readers neither know, nor inquire, what is fabulous or what 
is historical, in the subject. They attend only to what is probable, and 
are touched by events which resemble nature. Accordingly, some 
of the most pathetic tragedies are entirely fictitious in the subject; 
such as Voltaire’s Zaire and Alzire, the Orphan, Douglas, the Fair 
Penitent, and several others. 

Whether the subject be of the real or feigned kind, that on which 
most depends for rendering the incidents in a tragedy probable, and 
by means of their probability affecting, is the conduct or manage¬ 
ment of the story, and the connexion of its several parts. To re¬ 
gulate this conduct, critics have laid down the famous rule of the 


LECT. XLV.] 


TRAGEDY. 


509 


three Unities; the importance of which it will be necessary to discuss. 
But, in order to do this with more advantage, it will be necessary 
that we first look backwards, and trace the rise and origin of tragedy, 
which will give light to several things relating to the subject. 

Tragedy, like other arts, was,in its beginning, rude and imperfect. 
Among the Greeks, from whom our dramatic entertainments are 
derived, the origin of tragedy was no other than the song which 
was wont to be sung at the festival of Bacchus. A goat was the 
sacrifice offered to that god; after the sacrifice, the priests, with the 
company that joined them, sung hymns in honour of Bacchus; and 
from the name of the victim, rgayog, a goat,joined with w&b a song, 
undoubtedly arose the word tragedy. 

These hymns, or lyric poems, were sung sometimes by the whole 
company, sometimes by separate bands, answering alternately to 
each other; making what we call a chorus, with its strophes and an¬ 
tistrophes. In order to throw some variety into this entertainment, 
and to relieve the singers, it was thought proper to introduce a 
person who, between the songs, should make recitation in verse. 
Thespis, who lived about 536 years before the Christian era, made 
this innovation; and, as it was relished, iEschylus, who came 50 
years after him, and who is properly the father of tragedy, went 
a step farther, introduced a dialogue between two persons, or ac¬ 
tors, in which he contrived to interweave some interesting story, and 
brought his actors on a stage, adorned with proper scenery and de¬ 
corations. All that these actors recited, was called episode, or addi¬ 
tional song; and the songs of the chorus were made to relate no 
longer to Bacchus, their original subject, but to the story in which 
the actors were concerned. This began to give the drama a regular 
form, which was soon after brought to perfection, by Sophocles and 
Euripides. It is remarkable in how short a space of time tragedy 
grew up among the Greeks, from the rudest beginnings to its most 
perfect state. For Sophocles, the greatest and most correct of all 
the tragic poets, flourished only 22 years after iEschylus, and was 
little more than 70 years posterior to Thespis. 

From the account which I have now given, it appears, that the 
chorus was the basis or foundation of the ancient tragedy. It was 
not an ornament added to it; or a contrivance designed to render it 
more perfect; but, in truth, the dramatic dialogue was an addition 
to the chorus, which was the original entertainment. In process of 
time, the chorus, from being the principal, became only the acces¬ 
sory in tragedy; till at last^ in modern tragedy, it has disappear¬ 
ed altogether; which forms the chief distinction between the ancient 
and the modern stage. 

This has given rise to a question, much agitated between the par¬ 
tisans of the ancients and the moderns, whether the drama has 
gained, or has suffered, by the abolition of the chorus. It must 
be admitted, that the chorus tended to render tragedy both more 
magnificent, and more instructive and moral. It was always the 
most sublime and poetical part of the work; and being carried on 


TRAGEDY. 


<510 


[lect. xly . 


by singing, and accompanied with music, it must, no doubt, have 
diversified the entertainment greatly, and added to its splendour. 
_ ie chorus, at the same time, conveyed constant lessons of virtue. 
It was composed of such persons as might most naturally be supposed 
present on the occasion; inhabitants oi the place where the scene was 
laid, often the companions of some of the principal actors, and, 
therefore, in some degree, interested in the issue of the action. 
Ihis company, which, in the days of Sophocles, was restricted to 
the number of fifteen persons, was constantly on the stage during the 
whole performance, mingled in discourse with the actors, entered 
into their concerns, suggested counsel and advice to them, moral¬ 
ized on all the incidents that were going on, and, during the inter¬ 
vals of the action, sung their odes, or songs, in which they address¬ 
ed the gods, prayed for success to the virtuous, lamented their mis- 
iortunes, and delivered many religious and moral sentiments.* 

But, notwithstanding the advantages which were obtained by 
means of the chorus, the inconveniences,on the other side, are so 
great,as to> render the modern practice of excluding the chorus, far 
more eligible upon the whole. For if a natural and probable imi¬ 
tation of human actions be the chief end of the drama, no other 
persons ought to be brought on the stage, than those who are neces¬ 
sary to the dramatic action. The introduction of an adventitious 
company of persons, who have but a slight, concern in the business 
of the play, is unnatural in itself, embarrassing to the poet and 
though it may render the spectacle splendid, tends, undoubtedly, to 
lender it more cold and uninteresting, because more unlike a real 
transaction. The mixture of music, or song, on the part of the cho¬ 
rus, with the dialogue carried on by the actors, is another unnatural 
circumstance, removing the representation still farther from the re- 
semblance of life. The poet, besides, is subjected to innumerable 
dimculties, m so contrivin g his plan, that the presence of the cho- 

* The office of the chorus is thus described by Horace : 

Actoris partes chorus, officiumque virile 
Defendat: neu quid medios ihtercinat actus, 

Quod non proposito conducat, et hfereat apte. 

Ille bonis faveatque et consilictur amice, 

Et regat iratos, et amet pacare tumentes : 

Ille dapes laiidfet mensai brevis ; ille salubrem 
Justitiam, legesque, et apertis otia pertis : 

Ille tegat commissa, deosque precetur et oret, 

Ut redeat raiseris, abeat fortuna superbis. He Art. Poet. 193 

The chorus must support an actor’s part, 

Defend the virtuous, and advise with ai t; 

Govern the choleric, and the proud appease, 

And the short feasts of frugal tables praise ; 

Applaud the justice of well-governed states. 

And peace triumphant with her open gates.' 

Intrusted secrets let them ne’er betray, 

But to the righteous gods with ardour pray 
That fortune, with returning smiles, may bless 
Afflicted worth, and impious pride depress ; 
let let their songs with apt coherence join. 

I romotc the plot, and aid the just design. 


Francis. 





LECT. XLV.J 


TRAGEDY. 


all 


rus, during all the incidents of the play, shall consist with any pro¬ 
bability. The scene must be constantly, and often absurdly, laid 
in some public place, that the chorus may be supposed to have free 
access to it. i o many things that ought to be transacted in private, 
the chorus must ever be witnesses; they must be the confederates of 
both parties, who come successively upon the stage, and who are, 
perhaps, conspiring against each other. In short, the manage¬ 
ment ol a chorus is an unnatural confinement to a poet; it requires 
too great a sacrifice of probability in the conduct of the action; 
it has too much the air of a theatrical decoration, to be consistent 
with that appearance of reality, which a poet must ever preserve, 
in order to move our passions. The origin of tragedy, among the 
Greeks, we have seen, was a choral song, or hymn, to lhe gods. 
There is no wonder, therefore, that on the Greek stage it so long 
maintained possession. But it may confidently, I think, be assert¬ 
ed, that if, instead of the dramatic dialogue having been superadded 
to the chorus, the dialogue itself had been the first invention, the 
chorus would, in that case, never have been thought of. 

One use, I am of opinion, might still be made of the ancient 
chorus, and would be a considerable improvement of the modern 
theatre. Instead of that unmeaning, and often improperly cho¬ 
sen music, with which the audience is entertained in the intervals 
between the acts, a chorus might be introduced, whose music 
and songs, though forming no part of the play, should have a rela¬ 
tion to the incidents of the preceding act, and to the dispositions 
which those incidents are presumed to have awakened in the spec¬ 
tators. By this means the tone of passion would be kept up with¬ 
out interruption ; and all the good effects of the ancient chorus 
might be preserved, for inspiring proper sentiments, and for in¬ 
creasing the morality of the performance, without those inconve¬ 
niences which arose from the chorus forming a constituent part of 
the play, and mingling unseasonably, and unnaturally, with the 
personages of the drama. 

After the view which we have taken of the rise of tragedy, and 
of the nature of the ancient chorus, with the advantages and incon¬ 
veniences attending it, our way is cleared for examining, with more 
advantage, the three unities of action, place, and time, which have 
generally been considered as essential to the proper conduct of the 
dramatic fable. 

Of these three, the first, unity of action, is, beyond doubt, far 
the most important In treating of epic poetry, I have already 
explained the nature of it; as consisting in a relation which all the 
incidents introduced bear to some design or effect, so as to combine 
naturally into one whole. This unity of subject is still more essen¬ 
tial to tragedy, than it is to epic poetry. For a multiplicity of 
plots, or actions, crowded into so short a space as tragedy allows, 
must, of necessity, distract the attention, and prevent passion from 
rising to any height. Nothing, therefore, is worse conduct in a 
tragic poet, than to carry on two independent actions in the same 
play; the effect of which is, that the mind being suspended and 


51* 


TRAGEDY. 


[lect. xlv. 


divided between them, cannot give itself up entirely either to the 
one or the other. There may, indeed, be under-plots ; that is, the 
persons introduced may have different pursuits and designs; but the 
poet’s art must be shown in managing these so as to render them 
subservient to the main action. They ought to be connected with 
the catastrophe of the play, and to conspire in bringing it forward. 
If there be any intrigue which stands separate and independent, and 
which may be left out without affecting the unravelling of the plot, 
we may always conclude this to be a faulty violation of unity. 
Such episodes are not permitted here, as in epic poetry. 

We have a clear example of this defect in Mr. Addison’s Cato. 
The subject of this tragedy is, the death of Cato: and a very noble 
personage Cato is, and supported by the author with much dignity. 
But all the love scenes in the play, the passion of Cato’s two sons 
for Lucia, and that of Juba for Cato’s daughter, are mere episodes ; 
have no connexion with the principal action, and no effect upon it. 
The author thought his subject too barren in incidents, and in order 
to diversify it, he has given us, as it were, by the by, a history of 
the amours that were going on in Cato’s family; by which he hath 
both broken the unity of his subject, and formed a very unseason¬ 
able junction of gallantry, with the high sentiments and public 
spirited passions which predominate in other parts, and which the 
play was chiefly designed to exhibit. 

We must take care not to confound the unity of the action with 
the simplicity of the plot. Unity and simplicity import different 
things in dramatic composition. The plot is said to be simple, 
when a small number of incidents are introduced into it. But it 
may be implex, as the critics tprm it, that is, it may include a con¬ 
siderable number of persons and events, and yet not be deficient in 
unity; provided all the incidents be made to tend towards the prin¬ 
cipal object of the play, and be properly connected with it. All 
the Greek tragedies not only maintain unity in the action, but are 
remarkably simple in the plot; to such a degree, indeed, as some¬ 
times to appear to us too naked, and destitute of interesting events. 
In the (Edipus Coloneus, for instance, of Sophocles, the whole sub¬ 
ject is no more than this: CEdipus, blind and miserable, wanders 
to Athens, and wishes to die there: Creon, and his son Polynices, 
arrive at the same time, and endeavour, separately, to persuade the 
old man to return to Thebes, each with a view to his own interest: 
he will not go .- Theseus, the king of Athens, protects him ; and 
the play ends with his death. In the Philoctetes of the same author, 
the P] ot ' or fable > is nothing more than Ulysses, and the son of 
Achilles, studying to persuade the diseased Philoctetes to leave his 
uninhabited island, and go with them to Troy; which he refuses to 
do, till Hercules, whose arrows he possessed, descends from hea¬ 
ven and commands him. Yet these simple, and seemingly barren 
subjects, are wrought up with so much art by Sophocles, as to be¬ 
come very tender and affecting. 

Among the moderns, much greater variety of events has been 
admitted into tragedy. It has become more the theatre of passion 


LECT. XLV.] 


TRAGEDY. 


513 


than it was among the ancients. A greater display of characters is 
attempted; more intrigue and action are carried on; our curiosity 
is more awakened, and more interesting situations arise. This varie¬ 
ty is, upon the whole, an improvement on tragedy : it renders the 
entertainment both more animated and more instructive; and when 
kept within due bounds, may be perfectly consistent with unity of 
subject. But the poet must, at the same time, beware of not devia¬ 
ting too far from simplicity, in the construction of his fable. For 
it he overcharges it with action and intrigue, it becomes perplexed 
and embarrassed; and, by consequence, loses much of its effect. 
Congreve’s Mourning Bride, a tragedy, otherwise far from being 
void of merit, fails in this respect; and may be given as an instance 
of one standing in perfect opposition to the simplicity of the ancient 
plots. The incidents succeed one another too rapidly. The play 
is too full ot business. It is difficult for the mind to follow and com¬ 
prehend the whole series of events; and, what is the greatest fault 
of all, the catastrophe, which ought always to be plain and simple, 
is brought about in a manner too artificial and intricate. 

Unity of action must not only be studied in the general construc¬ 
tion of the fable or plot, but must regulate the several acts and scenes, 
into which the play is divided. 

The division of every play into five acts, has no other foundation 
than common practice, and the authority of Horace : 

Neve minor, neu sit quinto produetior actu 

Fabula*- De Art. Poet. v. 189. 

It is a division purely arbitrary. There is nothing in the nature of 
the composition which fixes this number rather than any other; and 
it had been much better if no such number had been ascertained, but 
every play had been allowed to divide itself into as many parts, or 
intervals, as the subject naturally pointed out. On the Greek stage, 
whatever may have been the case on the Roman, the division by acts 
was totally- unknown. The word act , never once occurs in Aristo¬ 
tle’s Poetics, in which he defines exactly every part of the drama, 
and divides it into the beginning, the middle, and the end; or, in 
his own words, into the prologue, the episode, and the exode. The 
Greek tragedy was, indepd, one continued representation, from be¬ 
ginning to end. The stage was never empty, nor the curtain let fall. 
But at certain intervals, when the actors retired, the chorus continu¬ 
ed and sung. Neither do these songs of the chorus divide the Greek 
tragedies into five portions, similar to our acts; though some of the 
commentators have endeavoured to force them into this office. But 
it is plain, that the intervals at which the chorus sung, are extremely 
unequal and irregular, suited to the occasion and the subject; and 
would divide the play sometimes into three, sometimes into seven 
or eight acts.! 

As practice has now established a different plan on the modern 

* If you would have your play deserve success, 

Give it five acts complete, nor more, nor less. Francis. 

+ See the dissertation prefixed to Franklin’s translation of Sophocles. 

65 




5 14 


TRAGEDY. 


[lect. xlv . 


stage, has divided every play into five acts, and made a total pause 
in the representation at the end of each act, the poet must be care¬ 
ful that this pause shall fall in a proper place; where there is a natu¬ 
ral pause in the action; and where, if the imagination has any thing 
to supply, that is not represented on the stage, it may be supposed 
to have been transacted during the interval. 

The first act ought to contain a clear exposition of the subject. It 
ought to be so managed as to awaken the curiosity of the spectators 
and, at the same time, to furnish them with materials for understand*-- 
ing the sequel. It should make them acquainted with the personages 
who are to appear, with their several views and interests, and with the 
situation of affairs at the time when the play commences. A striking 
introduction, such as the first speech of Almeria, in the Mourning 
Bride, and that of Lady Randolph, in Douglas, produces a happy 
effect; but this is what the subject will not always admit. In the 
ruder times of dramatic writing, the exposition of the subject was 
wont to be made by a prologue, or by a single actor appearing, and 
giving full and direct information to the spectators. Some of iEschy- 
lus’s and Euripides’s plays are opened in this manner. But such an 
introduction is extremely inartificial, and therefore is now totally 
abolished, and thesubject made to open itself by conversation among 
the first actors who are brought upon the stage. 

During the course of the drama, in the second, third, and fourth 
acts, the plot should gradually thicken. The great object which the 
poet ought here to have in view, is, by interesting us in his story, to 
keep our passions always awake. As soon as he allows us to lan¬ 
guish, there is no more tragic merit. He should, therefore, introduce 
no personages but such as are necessary for carrying on the action. 
He should contrive to place those whom he finds it properto introduce, 
in the most interesting situations. He should have no scenes of idle 
conversation, or mere declamation. The action of the play ought 
to be always advancing; and as it advances, the suspense, and the 
concern of the spectators, to* be raised more and more. This is the 
great excellency of Shakspeare, that his scenes are full of sentiment 
and action, never of mere discourse; whereas, it is often a fault of 
the best French tragedians, that they allow the action to languish 
for the sake of a long and artful dialogue. Sentiment, passion, pity, 
and terror, should reign throughout a tragedy. Every thing should 
be full of movements. A useless incident, or an unnecessary con¬ 
versation, weakens the interest which we take in the action, and ren¬ 
ders us cold and inattentive. 


The fifth act is the seat of the catastrophe, or the unravelling of 
the plot, in which we always expect the art and genius of the poet 
to be most fully displayed. The first rule concerning it is, that it 
be brought about by probable and natural means. Hence all unrav- 
ellings which turn upon disguised habits, rencounters by night, mis¬ 
takes of one person for another, and other such theatrical and roman¬ 
tic circumstances, are to be condemned as faulty. In the next place, 
the catastrophe ought always to be simple; to depend on few events, 
and to include but few persons. Passion never rises so high when 


LECT. XLV.J 


TRAGEDY. 


515 


it is divided among many objects, as when it is directed towards one, 
or a few. And it is still more checked, if the incidents be so com¬ 
plex and intricate, that the understanding is put on the stretch to 
trace them, when the heart should he wholly delivered up to emotion. 
The catastrophe of the Mourning Bride, as I formerly hinted, offends 
against both these rules. In the last place, the catastrophe of a tra¬ 
gedy ought to be the reign of pure sentiment and passion. In pro- 
poition as it approaches, every thing should warm and glow. No 
long discourses; no cold reasonings; no parade of genius, in the midst 
of those solemn and awful events, that close some of the great revo¬ 
lutions ot human fortune. I here, if any where, the poet must be sim¬ 
ple, serious, pathetic ; and speak no language but that of nature. 

The ancients were fond of unravellings, which turned upon what 
is called an ‘ Anagnorisis/ or a discovery of some person to be 
different from what he was taken to be. When such discoveries are 
artfully conducted, and produced in critical situations, they are ex¬ 
tremely striking; such as that famous one in Sophocles, which makes 
the whole subject of his CEdipus Tyrannus, and which is, urtdoubt- 
edly, the fullest of suspense, agitation, and terror, that ever was ex¬ 
hibited on any stage. Among the moderns, two of the most dis¬ 
tinguished Anagnorises, are those contained in Voltaire’s Merope, 
and Mr. Home’s Douglas; both of which are great masterpieces of 
the kind. 

It is not essential to the catastrophe of a tragedy, that it should 
end unhappily. In the course of the play, there may be sufficient 
agitation and distress, and many tender emotions raised by the suf¬ 
ferings and dangers of the virtuous, though in the end, good men are 
rendered successful. The tragic spirit, therefore, does not want 
scope upon this system ; and, accordingly, the Athalie of Racine, 
and some of Voltaire’s finest plays, such as Alzire, Merope, and the 
Orphan of China, with some few English tragedies likewise, have a 
fortunate conclusion. But, in general, the spirit of tragedy, espe¬ 
cially of English tragedy, leans more to the side of leaving the im¬ 
pression of virtuous sorrow full and strong upon the heart. 

A question intimately connected with this subject, and which has 
employed the speculations of several philosophical critics, naturally 
occurs here: how it comes to pass that those emotions of sorrow 
which tragedy excites, afford any gratification to the mind? For, 
is not sorrow in its nature a painful passion? Is not real distress 
often occasioned to the spectators, by the dramatic representations 
at which they assist? Do we not see their tears flow? and yet, 
while the impression of what they have suffered remains upon their 
minds, they again assemble in crowds to renew the same distresses. 
The question is not without difficulty, and various solutions of it have 
been proposed by ingenious men.* The most plain and satisfactory 

* See Dr. Campbell’s Philosophy of Rhetoric, Book i. ch. xi. where an account is given 
of the hypothesis of different critics on this subject; and where one is proposed, with 
which, in the main, I agree. See also Lord Kaimes’s Essays on the Principles of Mo¬ 
rality, Essay i.; and Mr David Hume’s Essay on Tragedy. 



516 


TRAGEDY. 


- [LECT. XLV. 

account of the matter, appears to me to be the following. By the 
wise and gracious constitution of our nature, the exercise of all the 
social passions is attended with pleasure. Nothing is more pleasing 
and grateful, than love and friendship. W herever man takes a strong 
interest in the concerns of his fellow creatures, an ijiternar satisfaction 
is made to accompany the feeling. Pity, or compassion, in particu¬ 
lar, is, for wise ends, appointed to be one of the strongest instincts 
of our frame, and is attended with a peculiar attractive power. It is 
an affection which cannot but be productive of some distress, on ac¬ 
count of the sympathy with the sufferers, which it necessarily in¬ 
volves. But as it includes benevolence and friendship, it partakes, 
at the same time, of the agreeable and pleasing nature of those affec¬ 
tions. The heart is warmed by kindness and humanity, at the same 
moment at which it is afflicted by the distresses of those with whom 
it sympathizes : and the pleasure arising from those kind emotions, 
prevails so much in the mixture, and so far counterbalances the pain, 
as to render the state of the mind, upon the whole, agreeable. At 
the same time, the immediate pleasure, which always goes along 
with the operation of the benevolent and sympathetic affections, de¬ 
rives an addition from the approbation of our own minds. We are 
pleased with ourselves, for feeling as we ought, and for entering, with 
proper sorrow, into the concerns of the afflicted. In tragedy, be¬ 
sides, other adventitious circumstances concur to diminish the pain¬ 
ful part of sympathy, and to increase the satisfaction attending it 
We are, in some measure, relieved, by thinking that the cause of 
our distress is feigned, not real; and we are also gratified by the 
charms of poetry, the propriety of sentiment and language, and the 
beauty of action. From the concurrence of these causes, the plea¬ 
sure which we receive from tragedy, notwithstanding the distress it 
occasions, seems to me to be accounted for in a satisfactory manner. 
At the same time, it is to be observed, that, as there is always a mix¬ 
ture of pain in the pleasure, that pain is capable of being so much 
heightened, by the representation of incidents extremely direful, as 
to shock our feelings, and to render us averse, either to the reading 
o such tragedies, or to the beholding of them upon the stage. & 

Having now spoken of the conduct of the subject throughout the 
acts, it is also necessary to take notice of the conduct of the several 
scenes which make up the acts of a play. 

The entrance of a new personage upon the stage, forms what is cal- 
e a new scene. These scenes, or successive conversations, should 
be closeiy linked and connected with each other; and much of the 
art of dramatic composition is shown in maintaining this connexion 
1 '1°. ru l es ** necessary to be observed for this purpose. 

he first is, that, during the course of one act, the stage should 
never be left vacant, though but for a single moment; that is, all 
the persons who have appeared in one scene, or conversation, should 
never go off together, and be succeeded by a new set of persons ap¬ 
pearing in the next scene, independent of the former. This makes 
a gap, or total interruption in the representation, which, in effect, 

P ts an end to that act. For, whenever the stage is evacuated. 


LECT. XLV.] 


TRAGEDY. 


537 


the act is closed. This rule is, very generally, observed by the 
French tragedians; but the English writers, both of comedy and 
tragedy, seldom pay any regard to it. Their personages succeed 
one another upon the stage with so little connexion; the union of 
their scenes is so much broken, that, with equal propriety, their 
plays might be divided into ten or twelve acts, as well as into five. 

The second rule, which the English writers also observe little 
better than the former, is, that no person shail come upon the 
stage, or leave it, without a reason appearing to us, both for the 
one and the other. Nothing is more awkward, and contrary to art, 
than for an actor to enter, without our seeing any cause for his 
appearing in that scene, except that it was for the poet’s purpose he 
should enter precisely at such a moment; or for an actor to go 
away without any reason for his retiring, farther than that the poet 
had no more speeches to put into his mouth. This is managing the 
personae dramatis exactly like so many puppets, who are moved by 
wires, to answer the call of the master of the show. Whereas the per¬ 
fection of dramatic writing requires that every thing should be con¬ 
ducted in imitation, as near as possible, of some real transaction; 
where we are let into the secret of all that is passing, where we be¬ 
hold persons before us always busy; see them coming and going; 
and know perfectly whence they come, and whither they go, and 
about what they are employed. 

All that I have hitherto said, relates to the unity of the dra¬ 
matic action. In order to. render the unity of action more com¬ 
plete, critics have added the other two unities of time and place. 
The strict observance of these is more difficult, and, perhaps, not 
so necessary. The unity of place requires, that the scene should 
never be shifted; but that the action of the play should be contin¬ 
ued to the end, in the same place where it is supposed to begin. 
The unity of time, strictly taken, requires, that the time of the 
action be no longer than the time that is allowed for the represen¬ 
tation of the play; though Aristotle seems to have given the poet a 
little more liberty, and permitted the action to comprehend the 
whole time of one day. 

The intention of both these rules is, to overcharge, as little as 
possible, the imagination of the spectators with improbable circum¬ 
stances in the acting of the play, and to bring the imitation more 
close to reality. We must observe, that the nature of dramatic ex¬ 
hibitions upon the Greek stage, subjected the ancient tragedians to 
a more strict observance of these unities than is necessary in 
modern theatres. I showed, that a Greek tragedy was one uninter¬ 
rupted representation, from beginning to end. There was no di¬ 
vision of acts; no pauses or interval between them ; but the stage 
was continually full; occupied either by the actors or the chorus. 
Hence, no room was left for the imagination to go beyond the pre¬ 
cise time and place of the representation; any more than is allowed 
during the continuance of one act, on the modern theatre. 

But the practice of suspending the spectacle totally for some 
little time between the acts, has made a great and material change; 


518 


TRAGEDY. 


[lect. xlv. 


gives more latitude to the imagination, and renders the ancient 
strict confinement to time and place less necessary. While the 
acting of the play is interrupted, the spectator can, without any 
great or violent effort^ suppose a few hours to pass between every 
act; or can suppose himself moved from one apartment of a palace, 
or one part of a city, to another: and, therefore, too strict an observ¬ 
ance of these unities ought not to be preferred to higher beauties 
of execution, nor to the introduction of more pathetic situations, 
which sometimes cannot be accomplished in any other way, than by 
the transgression of these rules. 

On the ancient stage, we plainly see the poets struggling with 
many an inconvenience, in order to preserve those unities which were 
then so necessary. As the scene could never be shifted, they were 
obliged to make it always lie in some court of a palace, or some public 
area, to which ail the persons concerned in the action might have 
equal access. This led to frequent improbabilities, by representing 
things as transacted there, which naturally ought to have been trans¬ 
acted before few witnesses, and in private apartments. The like im¬ 
probabilities arose, from limitingthemselves so much in pointof time. 
Incidents were unnaturally crowded ; and it is easy to point out seve¬ 
ral instances in the Greek tragedies, where events are supposed to 
pass during a soijg of the chorus, which must necessarily have em¬ 
ployed many hours. 

But though it seems necessary to set modern poets free from a 
strict observance of these dramatic unities, yet we must remember 
there are certain bounds to this liberty. Frequent and wild changes 
of time and place; hurrying the spectator from one distant city, or 
country, to another; or making several days or weeks to pass dur¬ 
ing the course of the representation, are liberties which shock the 
imagination, which give to the performance a romantic and unnatu¬ 
ral appearance, and, therefore, cannot be allowed in any dramatic ’ 
writer who aspires to correctness. In particular, we must remember, 
that it is only between the acts, that any liberty can be given for 
going beyond the unities of time and place. During the course of 
each act, they ought to be strictly observed ; that is, during each act 
the scene should continue the same, and no more time should be 
supposed to pass, than is employed in the representation of that act. 
This is a rule which the French tragedians regularly observe. To 
violate this rule, as is too often done by the English ; to change the 
place, and shift the scene in the midst of one act, shows great mcor- 
rectness, and destroys the whole intention of the division of a play into 
acts. Mr. Addison’s Cato is remarkable beyond most English trage¬ 
dies, for regularity of conduct. The author has limited°himsel£m 
tune, to a single day; and in place, has maintained the most rigorous 
unity. The scene is never changed; and the whole action passes in 
the hall of Cato’s house, at Utica. 

In general, the nearer a poet can bring the dramatic represen¬ 
tation, in all its circumstances, to an imitation of nature and real life, 
the impiession which he makes on us will always be the more perfect. 


LfccT. xlv.] QUESTIONS. 519 

Probability, as I observed at the beginning of the lecture, is highly 
essential to the conduct of the tragic action, and we are always hurt 
by the want of it. It is this that makes the observance of the dra¬ 
matic unities to be of consequence, as far as they can be observed 
without sacrificing more material beauties. It is not, as has been 
sometimes said, that by the preservation of the unities of time and 
place, spectators are deceived into a belief of the reality of the ob¬ 
jects which are set before them on the stage ; and that, when those 
unities are violated, the charm is broken, and they discover the whole 
to be a fiction. No such deception as this can ever be accomplished. 
No one ever imagines himself to be at Athens, or Rome, when a 
Greek or Roman subject is presented on the stage. He knows the 
whole to be an imitation only ; but he requires that imitation to be 
conducted with skill and verisimilitude. His pleasure, the enter¬ 
tainment which he expects, the interest which he is to take in the 
story, all depend on its being so conducted. His imagination, there¬ 
fore, seeks to aid the imitation, and to rest on the probability ; and 
the poet, who shocks him by improbable circumstances, and by 
awkward, unskilful imitation, deprives him of his pleasure, and 
leaves him hurt and displeased. This is the whole mystery of the 
theatrical illusion. 


QUESTIONS, 


How has dramatic poetry, among 
all civilized nations, been considered, 
and of what has it been judged worthy? 
According to what, does it divide into 
the two forms of comedy or tragedy ? 
Why has tragedy always been consi¬ 
dered a more dignified entertainment 
than comedy? Upon what do they 
respectively rest; and what are their 
respective instruments ? Which, there¬ 
fore, shall be the object of our fullest 
discussion? When is tragedy a noble 
idea of poetry ? Of what is it a direct 
imitation ; and why ? Hence, what fol¬ 
lows ? What is it, or what ought it to 
be ? As tragedy is a high species of 
composition, so also, in its general strain 
and spirit, to what is it favourable? 
How is this remark illustrated ? What 
does every poet find ? Why must he 
sometimes represent the virtuous un¬ 
fortunate ; but what will he always 
study to do ? Though they may be de¬ 
scribed as unprosperous, yet of what is 
there no instance? Even when bad men 
succeed in their designs, what follows? 
What sentiments are most generally 
excited by tragedy; and therefore, 
what must be acknowledged ? Taking 
tragedies complexly, of what is our 
author fully persuaded ; and, there¬ 
fore, upon what must the zeal which 
some pious men have shown against. 

. 4 F 


the entertainments of the theatre, rest ? 
What account does Aristotle give of 
the design of tragedy ? Of this defini¬ 
tion, what is observed; and what may 
be considered a better one? When does 
an author accomplish all the moral 
purposes of tragedy ? In order to this 
end, what isthe first requisite; and why ? 
What is the object of the epic poet, and 
what follows ? How is this illustrated ? 
From what does it appear that tragedy 
demands a stricter imitation of the life 
and actions of men? How, only, can 
passion be raised? What, therefore, fol¬ 
lows ? What does this principle exclude 
from tragedy ? Why have ghosts main¬ 
tained their place ? But what is to be 
condemned; and why ? Of this mix¬ 
ture of machinery with the tragic ac¬ 
tion, what is observed? In order to 
promote that impression of probability 
which is so necessary for the success of 
tragedy, what have some critics re¬ 
quired ? Of what tragedies were such 
the subjects ? But why cannot our au¬ 
thor hold this to be a matter of any 
great consequence ? In order to our be¬ 
ing moved, what is not necessary? 
How is this position farther illustrated, 
and what instances are mentioned? 
Whether the subject be real or feigned, 
on what does most depend for render¬ 
ing the incidents in a tragedy pro^a- 







519 a 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect. xlv. 


hie? To regulate this conduct, what 
famous rule have critics laid down; 
and of them, what is observed ? But in 
order to do this with more advantage, 
what is first necessary ? What was the 
state of tragedy, in its beginning ? 
What was its origin among the Greeks? 
How were these poems sung ? In or¬ 
der to throw some variety into this en¬ 
tertainment, what was thought proper? 
Who made this innovation; of him, 
what is observed; and what is said of 
vEschylus ? Of what these actors reci¬ 
ted, what is remarked ? What did this 
begin to give the drama, and by whom 
was it soon perfected ? What is remark¬ 
able ; and how is this illustrated ? 
From this account, what appears; and 
of it, what is further observed? To 
what question has this given rise ? 
What must be admitted; and why? 
The chorus, at the same time, conveyed 
what; and of what persons was it 
composed ? Of this company, what is 
further remarked ? What illustration 
of this remark is given ? But, notwith¬ 
standing the advantages of the chorus, 
yet what is observed; and why ? How 
is this remark fully illustrated ? What 
may be confidently asserted? What 
use might still be made of the ancient 
chorus ? What would be the effect of 
this ? After the view which we have 
taken of the rise of tragedy, &c. for 
examining what, is our way cleared ? 
Of these three, which is the most im¬ 
portant? When was its nature explain¬ 
ed ; and in what does it consist ? Why 
is this unity of subject still more essen¬ 
tial to tragedy, than it is to epic poetry? 
What, therefore, follows; and why? 
What may there be? With what ought 
they to be connected; and for what 
reason ? Where have we a clear ex¬ 
ample of this defect ? What is the sub¬ 
ject of this tragedy; and what is said 
of Cato himself? But what are mere 
episodes ; why did the author intro¬ 
duce them; and what follows ? 

Of what must we take care ? What 
do unity and simplicity respectively 
import in dramatic composition? Of 
the Greek tragedies, what is here ob¬ 
served ? How is this remark illustrated 
from the (Edipus and Philoctetes of 
Sophocles? Yet of these simple sub¬ 
jects, what is observed? Among the 
moderns, what has been admitted into 
tragedy; and what has it become? 
What remark follows? Why is this va¬ 
riety an improvement in tragedy? But 


t of what must the poet beware; and 
; why? What instance is given to illus- 
i trate this remark; and of it, what is 
i, observed ? What must unity of action 
3 also regulate? What foundation has 
? the division of every play into five 
? acts ? How does it appear to be purely 

- arbitrary? On the Greek stage, what 

- was totally unknown; and from what 
? does this appear ? What was the Greek 
, tragedy? How is this illustrated? 

What is remarked of the intervals at 

- which the chorus sung? As practice 
3 has now established a different plan, 
i about what must the poet be careful ? 

- What should the first act contain, and 
\ how ought it to be managed? With 
l what does it make them acquainted ? 
> Of a striking introduction, what is ob- 
1 served ? In the ruder times of the dra- 
’ ma, how was the exposition of the sub • 

' ject made ; and what instance is men- 
; tioned ? As such an introduction is ex- 
! tremely artificial, what follows ? Dur¬ 
ing which acts, should the plot gradu¬ 
ally thicken ? Here, what should be 
the poets great object; and why ? 
What should he therefore do? What 
remark follows; and of whom is this 
the great excellence ? But of French 
tragedians, what is observed ? What 
should reign throughout a tragedy; 
and why? Of the fifth act, what is re¬ 
marked? What is the first rule con¬ 
cerning it; and hence, what are faulty? 
What is the next rule; and why ? In 
the last place, what is observed; and 
how is this illustrated ? Of what were 
the ancients fond? When are such 
discoveries extremely striking; and 
what instances are given ? * What is 
not essential to the catastrophe of a 
tragedy ; and why ? In proof of this 
remark, what instances are given? 
But in general, to what does the spirit 
of English tragedy lean ? What ques¬ 
tion naturally occurs here; and why ? 
Of this question, what is observed? 
What is the most plain and satisfacto¬ 
ry account of the matter ? By what 
are we, in some measure, relieved; and 
by what are we gratified ? What re¬ 
mark follows ? At the same time, what 
must be observed ? Having spoken of 
the conduct of the subject throughout 
the acts, of what is it necessary also to 
take notice ? What forms a new scene; 
and of these scenes, what is observed ? 
For this purpose, what is the first rule 
to be observed? Of this, what is re¬ 
marked ; and why ? By whom is this 





LECT. XLVI.] 


619 b 


TRAGEDY. 


rule observed ; and by whom is it not ? 
How does this appear? What is the 
second rule; and why? This is mana¬ 
ging the personae dramatis in what 
manner ? Whereas, what does the per¬ 
fection of dramatic writing require? 
All that has hitherto been said, relates 
to what; and in order to render it 
more complete, what have critics add¬ 
ed ? Of the strict observance of these, 
what is observed ? What do they re¬ 
spectively require ? What is the inten¬ 
tion of both these rules ? What must we 
observe ? From what does this appear ; 
and hence, for what was there no room 
left ? What has been the effect of sus¬ 
pending the spectacle totally for some 
little time between the acts? While 
the acting of the play is interrupted, 
what can the spectator do; and there¬ 
fore, what follows? On the ancient 
stage, what do we plainly see ? As the 
scene could not be shifted, what was 
the consequence? To what did this 
lead ? From what did the like improba¬ 
bilities arise; and why? Though mo¬ 
dern poets need not strictly to observe 


these unities, yet what must we re- 
member; and why? In particular, 
what must we remember ? How is this 
illustrated; and what instances of an 
adherence to this rule are mentioned ? 
When will the impression in general, 
be the more perfect ? How is this re¬ 
mark fully illustrated ? 


ANALYSIS. 

Dramatic poetry. 

1. Tragedy. 

a. Tne strain and spirit favourable to 

virtue. 

b. Aristotle’s account of it. 

c. The subject. 

d. The origin. 

e. The chorus. 

f. Unity. 

a. Unity of action. 

(a.) Unity and simplicity contrast¬ 
ed. 

(6.) Directions for the conduct of 
the acts. 

(c.) The close considered. 

(cl.) Why tragic representations af¬ 
fords gratification. 

(e.) Directions for the scenes of the 
acts. 

b. Unity of time and place. 


LECTURE XLVI. 


TRAGEDY.—GREEK—FRENCH—ENGLISH TRAGEDY. 

Having treated of the dramatic action in tragedy, I proceed next 
to treat of the characters most proper to be exhibited. It has been 
thought, by several critics, that the nature of tragedy requires the 
principal personages to be always of illustrious character, and of 
high, or princely rank ; whose misfortunes and sufferings, it is said, 
take faster hold of the imagination, and impress the heart more 
forcibly, than similar events happening to persons in private life. 
But this is more specious than solid. It is refuted by facts. For the 
distresses of Desdemona, Monimia, and Belvidera, interest us as 
deeply as if they had been princesses or queens. The dignity of 
tragedy does, indeed, require that there should be nothing degrad¬ 
ing or mean in the circumstances of the persons which it exhibits, 
but it requires nq/hing more. Their high rank may render the 
spectacle more splendid, and the subject seemingly of more impor¬ 
tance, but conduces very little to its being interesting or pathetic ; 
which depends entirely on the nature of the tale, on the art of the 
poet in conducting it, and on the sentiments to which it gives oc¬ 
casion. In every rank of life, the relations of father, husband, son, 
brother, lover, or friend, lay the foundation of those affecting situa¬ 
tions, which make man’s heart feel for man. 







520 


TRAGEDY. 


[lect. xlvi. 


The moral characters of the persons represented, are of much 
greater consequence than the external circumstances in which the 
poet places them. Nothing, indeed, in the conduct of tragedy, de¬ 
mands a poet’s attention more, than so to describe his personages, 
and so to order the incidents which relate to them, as shall leave 
upon the spectators impressions favourable to virtue, and to the ad¬ 
ministration of Providence. It is not necessary, for this end, that 
poetical justice, as it is called, should be observed in the catastrophe 
of the piece. This has been long exploded from tragedy ; the end 
of which is, to affect us with pity for the virtuous in distress, and to 
afford a probable representation of the state of human life, where 
calamities often befall the best, and a mixed portion of good and evil 
is appointed for all. But, withal, the author must beware of shock¬ 
ing our minds with such representations of life as tend to raise 
horror, or to render virtue an object of aversion. Though innocent 
persons suffer, their sufferings ought to be attended with such cir¬ 
cumstances, as shall make virtue appear amiable and venerable \ 
and shall render their condition, on the whole, preferable to that of 
bad men, who have prevailed against them. The stings and the 
remorse of guilt, must ever be represented as productive of greater 
miseries, than any that the bad can bring upon the good. 

Aristotle’s observations on the characters proper for tragedy, 
are very judicious. He is of opinion, that perfect unmixed charac¬ 
ters, either of good or ill men, are not the fittest to be introduced. 
The distresses of the one, being wholly unmerited, hurt and shock 
us ; and the sufferings of the other, occasion no pity. Mixed cha¬ 
racters, such as in fact we meet with in the world, afford the most 
proper field for displaying, without any bad effect on morals, the 
vicissitudes of life; and they interest us the more deeply, as they 
display the emotions and passions of which we have all been conscious. 
When such persons fall into distress through the vices of others, 
the subject may be very pathetic; but it is always more instructive 
when a person has been himself the cause of his misfortune, and 
when his misfortune is occasioned by the violence of passion, or by 
some weakness incident to human nature. Such subjects both dis¬ 
pose us to the deepest sympathy, and administer useful warnings to 
us for our own conduct. 

Upon these principles, it surprises me that the story of (Edipus 
should have been so much celebrated by all the critics, as one of the 
fittest subjects for tragedy, and so often brought upon the stage, 
not by Sophocles only, but by Corneille also, and Voltaire. An in¬ 
nocent person, one in the main, of a virtuous character, through no 
crime of his ovyn, nay, not by the vices of others, fyut through mere 
fatality and blind chance, is involved in the greatest of all human 
miseries. In a casual rencounter he kills his father, without know¬ 
ing him : he afterwards is married to his own mother; and, discover¬ 
ing himself, in the end, to have committed both parricide and incest, 
he becomes frantic, and dies in the utmost misery. Such a subject 
excites horror rather than pity. As it is conducted by Sophocles, it 
is indeed extremely affecting; but it conveys no instruction; it awa- 


* LECT. XLVI.] 


tragedy 


521 


kens in the mind no tender sympathy; it leaves no impression fa¬ 
vourable to virtue or humanity. 

It must be acknowledged, that the subjects of the ancient Greek 
tragedies were too often founded on mere destiny and inevitable 
misfortunes. They were too much mixed with their tales about 
oracles, and the vengeance of the gods, which led to many an in¬ 
cident sufficiently melancholy and tragical; but rather purely tra¬ 
gical, than useful or moral. Hence, both the (Edipuses of Sopho¬ 
cles, the Iphigenia in Aulis, the Hecuba of Euripides, and several 
of the like kind. In the course of the drama, many moral senti¬ 
ments occurred. But the instruction which the fable of the play 
conveyed, seldom was any more than that reverence was owing to 
the gods, and submission due to the decrees of destiny. Modern 
tragedy has aimed at a higher object, by becoming more the theatre 
of passion ; pointing out to men the consequences of their miscon¬ 
duct; showing the direful effects which ambition, jealousy, love, 
resentment, and other such strong emotions, when misguided, or 
left unrestrained, produce upon human life. An Othello, hurried 
by jealousy to murder his innocent wife; a Jaffier, insnared by re¬ 
sentment and want, to engage in a conspiracy, and then stung with 
remorse, and involved in ruin : a Siffredi, through the deceit which 
he employs for public spirited ends, bringing destruction on all 
whom he loved; a Calista, seduced into a criminal intrigue, which 
overwhelms herself, her father, and all her friends in misery; these, 
and such as these, are the examples which tragedy now displays 
to public view; and by means of which it inculcates on men the 
proper government of their passions. 

Of all the passions which furnish matter to tragedy, that which 
has most occupied the modern stage, is love. To the ancient thea¬ 
tre, it was in a manner wholly unknown. In few of their tragedies 
is it ever mentioned ; and I remember no more than one which turns 
upon it, the Hippolitus of Euripides. Tfiis was owing to the na¬ 
tional manners of the Greeks, and to that greater separation of the 
two sexes from one another, than has taken place in modern times; 
aided too, perhaps, by this circumstance, that no female actress ever 
appeared on the ancient stage. But though no reason appears for 
the total exclusion of love from the theatre, yet with what justice or 
propriety it has usurped so much place, as to be in a manner the sole 
hinge of modern tragedy, may be much questioned. V oltaire, who 
is no less eminent as a critic than as a poet, declares loudly and 
strongly against this predominancy of love, as both degrading the 
majesty, and confining the natural limits of tragedy. And assuredly, 
the mixing of it perpetually with all the great and solemn revolu¬ 
tions of human fortune which belong to the tragic stage, tends to give 
tragedy too much the air of gallantry and juvenile entertainment. 
The Athalie of Racine, the Merope of Voltaire, the Douglas of Mr. 
Home, are sufficient proofs, that without any assistance from love, 
the drama is capable of producing its highest effects upon the mind. 

This seems to be clear, that wherever love is introduced into tra¬ 
gedy, it ought to reign in it, and to give rise to the principal action 

66 


522 


TRAGEDY. 


[LECT. XLVL 


It ought to be that sort of love which possesses all the force and ma¬ 
jesty of passion; and which occasions great and important conse¬ 
quences. For nothing can have a worse effect, or be more debasing 
to tragedy, than, together with the manly and heroic passions, to 
mingle a trifling love intrigue, as a sort of seasoning to the play. 
The bad effects of this are sufficiently conspicuous both in the Cato 
of Mr. Addison, as I had occasion before to remark, and in the 
Iphigenie of Racine. 

After a tragic poet has arranged his subject, and chosen his per¬ 
sonages, the next thing he must attend to, is the propriety of sen¬ 
timents ; that they be perfectly suited to the characters of those 
persons to whom they are attributed, and to the situations in which 
they are placed. The necessity of observing this general rule is so 
obvious, that I need not insist upon it. It is principally in the pa¬ 
thetic parts, that both the difficulty and the importance of it are the 
greatest. Tragedy is the region of passion. We come to it expect¬ 
ing to be moved; and let the poet be ever so judicious in his con¬ 
duct, moral in his intentions, and elegant in his style, yet if he fails in 
the pathetic, he has no tragic merit; we return cold and disappoint¬ 
ed from the performance; and never desire to meet with it more. 

To paint passion so truly and justly as to strike the hearts of the 
hearers with full sympathy, is a prerogative of genius given to few. 
It requires strong and ardent sensibility of mind. It requires the 
author to have the power of entering deeply into the characters 
which he draws; of becoming for a moment the very person whom 
he exhibits, and of assuming all his feelings. For, as I have often had 
occasion to observe, there is no possibility of speaking properly the 
language of any passion, without feeling it; and it is to the absence 
or deadness of real emotion, that we must ascribe the want of suc¬ 
cess m so many tragic writers, when they attempt being pathetic. 

No man, for instance, when he is under the strong agitations of 
anger, or grief, or any such violent passion, ever thinks of describ¬ 
ing to another what his feelings at that time are ; or of telling them 
what he resembles. This never was, and never will be, the lan¬ 
guage of any person, when he is deeply moved. It is the lan¬ 
guage of one who describes coolly the condition of that person to 
another; or it is the language of the passionate person himself, 
alter his emotion has subsided, relating what his situation was in 
the moments of passion. Yet this sort of secondary description, 
is what tragic poets too often give us, instead of the native and pri¬ 
mary language of passion. Thus, in Mr. Addison’s Cato, when 
Lucia confesses to Portius her love for him, but at the same time 
swears with the greatest solemnity, that in the present situation of 
their country she will never marry him; Portius receives this un¬ 
expected sentence with the utmost astonishment and grief; at least 
the poet wants to make us believe that he so received it. How does 
he express these feelings? 

Fix d in astonishment, I gaze upon thee, 

Like one just blasted by a stroke from heav’n, 

Who pants for breath, and stiffens yet alive 

In dreadful looks : a monument of wrath 


LECT. XLVI.] 


TRAGEDY. 


523 


This makes his whole reply to Lucia. Now did any person, who 
was of a sudden astonished and overwhelmed with sorrow, ever 
since the creation of the world, express himself in this manner? 
This is indeed an excellent description to be given us by another, 
of a person who was in such a situation. Nothing would have 
been more proper for a bystander, recounting this conference, than 
to have said, 

Fix’d in astonishment, he gaz’d upon her 

Like one just blasted by a stroke from heav’n, 

Who pants for breath, he. 

But the person, who is himself concerned, speaks on such an oc¬ 
casion in a very different manner. He gives vent to his feelings ; 
he pleads for pity; he dwells upon the cause of his grief and aston¬ 
ishment ; but never thinks of describing his own person and looks, 
and showing us, by a simile, what he resembles. Such represen¬ 
tations of passions are no better in poetry than it would be in paint¬ 
ing, to make a label issue from the mouth of a figure, bidding 
us remark, that this figure represents an astonished or a grieved 
person. 

On some other occasions, when poets do not employ this sort 
of descriptive language in passion, they are too apt to run into 
forced and unnatural thoughts, in order to exaggerate the feelings 
of persons, whom they would paint as very strongly moved. When 
Osmyn, in the Mourning Bride, after parting with Almeria, re¬ 
grets, in a long soliloquy, that his eyes only see objects that are 
present, and cannot see Almeria after she is gone; when Jane 
Shore, in Mr. Rowe’s tragedy, on meeting with her husband in 
her extreme distress, and finding that he had forgiven her, calls on 
the rains to give her their drops, and the springs to give her their 
streams, that she may never want a supply of tears; in such pas¬ 
sages, we see very plainly, that it is neither Osmyn, nor Jane Shore, 
that speak; hut the poet himself in his own person, who, instead 
of assuming the feelings of those whom he means to exhibit, and 
speaking as they would have done in such situations, is straining 
his fancy, and spurring up his genius, to say something that shall 
be uncommonly strong and lively. 

If we attend to the language that is spoken by persons under the 
influence of real passion, we shall find it always plain and simple; 
abounding indeed with those figures which express a disturbed and 
impetuous state of mind, such as interrogations, exclamations, and 
apostrophes; but never employing those which belong to the mere 
embellishment and parade of speech. We never meet with any 
subtilty or refinement, in the sentiments of real passion. The 
thoughts which passion suggests, are always plain and obvious ones, 
arising directly from its object. Passion never reasons, nor specu¬ 
lates, till its ardour begins to cool. It never leads to long discourse 
or declamation. On the contrary, it expresses itself most commonly 
in short, broken, and interrupted speeches ; corresponding to the vio¬ 
lent and desultory emotions of the mind. 

When we examine the French tragedians by these principles, 


52 4 


TRAGEDY. 


[lect. xlvi. 


which seem clearly founded in nature, we find them often deficient. 
Though in many parts of tragic composition, they have great merit; 
though in exciting soft and tender emotions, some of them are very 
successful; yet, in the high and strong pathetic, they generally fail. 
Their passionate speeches too often run into long declamation. 
There is too much reasoning and refinement; too much pomp and 
studied beauty in them. They rather convey a feeble impres¬ 
sion of passion, than awaken any strong sympathy in the reader’s 
mind. 


Sophocles and Euripides are much more successful in this part of 
composition. In their pathetic scenes, we find no unnatural refine¬ 
ment ; no exaggerated thoughts. They set before us the plain and 
direct feelings of nature, in simple expressive language ; and there- 
foie on great occasions, they seldom fail of touching the heart.* 
I his too is Shakspeare’s great excellency; and to this it is princi¬ 
pally owing, that his dramatic productions, notwithstanding their 
many imperfections, have been so long the favourites of the public. 
He is more faithful to the true language of nature, in the midst of 
passion, than any writer. He gives us this language, unadulterated 
by art; and more instances of it can be quoted from him, than from 
all other tragic poets taken together. I shall refer only to that admi¬ 
rable scene in Macbeth, where Macduff receives the account of his 
wife, and all his children, being slaughtered in his absence. The 
emotions, first of grief, and then ot the most fierce resentment rising 
against Macbeth, are painted in such a manner, that there is no heart 
but must feel them, and no fancy can conceive any thing more ex¬ 
pressive of nature. 

With regard to moral sentiments and reflections in tragedies, it is 
clear that they must not recur too often. They lose their effect 
when unseasonably crowded. They render the play pedantic and 
declamatory. This is remarkably the case with those Latin trage¬ 
dies which go under the name of Seneca, which are little more 
than a collection of declamations and moral sentiments, wrought 
upwffh a quaint brilliancy, which suited the prevailing taste of that 

I am not, however, of opinion, that moral reflections ought to be 
altogether omitted in tragedies. When properly introduced, they 
give dignity to the composition, and on many occasions, they are 
extremely natural. When persons are under any uncommon dis¬ 
tress ; when they are beholding in others, or experiencing in them¬ 
selves the vicissitudes of human fortune; indeed, when they are 
placed in any of the great and trying situations of life, serious and 


ra na,ura,than the “ 


pe£r ri ffgctrJ'epx.eirQe /u.' ofjt/uaurtv, tskvix, 
Ti s rov 7 rav 6 <rra.Tov ytxur j 

A*, *** ri Jgdrai ; mtgjix yd^ oi^erx.^ 
rtWMftcc, ofxfxct vmfyo y d ( sfcTov 'TtKVUv! 
oi* h fuvcttuw- @ou\tuuctret. 


4 





LECT. XLVI,] 


TRAGEDY. 


525 


moral leflections naturally occur to them, whether they be persons 
of much virtue or not. Almost every human being is, on such oc¬ 
casions, disposed to be serious. It is then the natural tone of the 
mind; and therefore no tragic poet should omit such proper oppor¬ 
tunities, when they occur, for favouring the interests of virtue. 
Cardinal Wolsey’s soliloquy upon his fall, for instance, in Shak- 
speare, when he bids a long farewell to all his greatness, and the ad¬ 
vices which he afterwards gives to Cromwell, are, in his situation, ex¬ 
tremely natural; touch and please all readers; and are at once in¬ 
structive and affecting. Much of the merit of Mr. Addison’s Cato 
depends upon that moral turn of thought which distinguishes it. I 
have had occasion, both in this lecture and in the preceding one, to 
take notice of some of its defects ; and certainly neither for warmth 
of passion nor proper conduct of the plot, is it at all eminent. 
It does not, however, follow, that it is destitute of merit. For, by 
the purity and beauty of the language, by the dignity of Cato’s 
character, by that ardour of public spirit, and those virtuous senti¬ 
ments of which it is full, it has always commanded high regard ; and 
has, both in our own country and among foreigners, acquired no 
small reputation. 

The style and versification of tragedy ought to be free, easy, and 
varied. Our blank verse is happily suited to this purpose. It has 
sufficient majesty for raising the style; it can descend to the simple 
and familiar; it is susceptible of great variety of cadence; and is 
quite free from the constraint and monotony of rhyme. For mono¬ 
tony is, above all things, to be avoided by a tragic poet. If he main¬ 
tains every where the same stateliness of style, if he uniformly keep 
up the same run of measure and harmony in his verse, he cannot 
fail of becoming insipid. He should not indeed sink into flat and 
careless lines; his style should always have force and dignity, but 
not the uniform dignity of epic poetry. It should assume that brisk¬ 
ness and ease, which is suited to the freedom of dialogue, and the 
fluctuations of passion. 

One of the greatest misfortunes of the French tragedy is, its be¬ 
ing always written in rhyme. The nature of the French language, 
indeed, requires this, in order to distinguish the style from mere 
prose. But it fetters the freedom of the tragic dialogue, fills it with 
a languid monotony, and is, in a manner, fatal to the high strength 
and power of passion. V oltaire maintains, that the difficulty of com¬ 
posing in French rhyme, is one great cause of the pleasure which 
the audience receives from the composition. Tragedy would be 
ruined, says he, if we were to write it in blank verse; take away the 
difficulty, and you take away the whole merit. A strange idea! as 
if the entertainment of the audience arose, not from the emotions 
which the poet is successful in awakening, but from a reflection on 
the toil which he endured in his closet, from assorting male and fe¬ 
male rhymes. With regard to those splendid comparisons in rhyme, 
and strings of couplets, with which it was, some time ago, fashiona¬ 
ble for our English poets to conclude, not only every act of a tragedy, 
but sometimes also the most interesting scenes, nothing need be said, 
4G 




GREEK TRAGEDY. 


[lect. XLVL 


but that they were the most perfect barbarisms; childish ornaments, 
introduced to please a false taste in the audience, and now univer¬ 
sally laid aside. 

Having thus treated of all the different parts of tragedy, I shall 
conclude the subject, with a short view of the Greek, the French, 
and the English stage, and with observations on the principal writers. 

Most of the distinguishing characters of the Greek tragedy have 
been already occasionally mentioned. It was embellished with the 
lyric poetry of the chorus, of the origin of which, and of the advan¬ 
tages and disadvantages attending it, I treated fully in the preceding 
lecture. The plot was always exceedingly simple. It admitted of few 
incidents. It was conducted with a very exact regard to the uni¬ 
ties of action, time, and place. Machinery, or the intervention of 
the gods, was employed; and, which is very faulty, the final un¬ 
ravelling sometimes made to turn upon it. Love, except in one or 
two instances, was never admitted into the Greek tragedy. Their 
subjects were often founded on destiny, or inevitable misfortunes. 

vein of religious and moral sentiment always runs through them; 
but they made less use than the moderns of the combat of the pas¬ 
sions, and of the distresses which our passions bring upon us. Their 
plots were all taken from the ancient traditionary stories of their 
own nation. Hercules furnishes matter for two tragedies. The 
history of (Edipus, king of Thebes, and his unfortunate familv, for 
six. 1 he war of Troy, with its consequences, for no fewer than sev¬ 
enteen. There is only one of later date than this; which is the Per- 
seb, or expedition of Xerxes, by ^Eschylus. 

vEschylus is the father of Greek tragedy, and exhibits both the 
beauties and the defects of an early original writer, He is bold 
nervous, and animated, but very obscure and difficult to be under¬ 
stood; partly by reason of the incorrect state in which we have his 
works, (they having suffered more by time, than any of the ancient 
tragedians) and partly, on account of the nature of his style, which 
is crowded with metaphors, often harsh and tumid. He abounds 
with martial ideas and descriptions. He has much fire and eleva¬ 
tion ; less of tenderness than of force. He delights in the marvel¬ 
lous. The ghost of Darius in the Persae, the inspiration of Cassan¬ 
dra in Agamemnon, and the songs of the Furies in the Eumenides, 
are beautiful in their kind, and strongly expressive of his genius. 

Sophocles is the most masterly of the three Greek tragedians* 
the most correct in the conduct of his subjects; the most mst and 
sublime in his sentiments. He is eminent for his descriptive talent. 

T °fR e °. f ® d !P us > in his Edipus Coloneus, and 
of the death of Haemon and Antigone, in his Antigone, are perfect 

d rTT t0 P ° etS * Euri P ides is esteemed more 
tender than Sophocles and he is fuller of moral sentiments. But, 

the conduct of his plays, he is more incorrect and negligent* his 

Z°n S pt 10n %T Penm§S l the SUb J ect ’ are made a less artful 
manner, and the songs of his chorus, though remarkably poetical, 

&DhnZ m °RA F 8 con »exion with the main action, than those of 
Sophocles. Both Euripides and Sophocles, however, have very 


LECT. XLVI.J 


GREEK TRAGEDY. 


52 7 


high merit as tragic poets. They are elegant and beautiful in their 
style; just, for the most part, in their thoughts; they speak with 
the voice of nature ; and, making allowance for the difference of an* 
cient and modern ideas, in the midst of all their simplicity, they are 
touching and interesting. 

I he circumstances of theatrical representation on the stages of 
Greece and Rome, were, in several respects, very singular, and 
widely different from what obtains among us. Not only were the 
songs of the chorus accompanied with instrumental music, but,as 
the Abbe du Bos, in his reflections on poetry and painting, has pro¬ 
ved, with much curious erudition, the dialogue part had also a 
modulation of its own, which was capable of being set to notes; 
it was carried on in a sort of recitative between the actors, and 
was supported by instruments. He has farther attempted to prove, 
but the proof seems more incomplete, that on some occasions, on the 
Roman stage, the pronouncing and gesticulating parts were divided ; 
that one actor spoke, and another performed the gestures and mo¬ 
tions corresponding to what the first said. The actors in tragedy 
wore a long robe, called Syrma, which flowed upon the stage. They 
were raised upon Cothurni, which rendered their stature uncom¬ 
monly high; and they always played in masks. These masks 
were like helmets, which covered the whole head; the mouths of 
them were so contrived, as to give an artificial sound to the voice, in 
order to make it be heard over their vast theatres; and the visage 
was so formed and painted, as to suit the age, characters, or dis¬ 
positions of the persons represented. When, during the course 
of one scene, different emotions were to appear in the same person, 
the mask is said to have been so painted, that the actor, by turn¬ 
ing one or other profile of his face to the spectators, expressed the 
change of the situation. This, however, was a contrivance attended 
with many disadvantages. The mask must have deprived the 
spectators of all the pleasure which arises from the natural animated 
expression of the eye and the countenance; and, joined with the 
other circumstances which I have mentioned, is apt to give us but an 
unfavourable idea of the dramatic representations of the ancients. 
In defence of them, it must, at the same time, be remembered, that 
their theatres were vastly more extensive in the area than ours, and 
filled with immense crowds. They were always uncovered, and ex¬ 
posed to the open air. The actors were beheld at a much greater 
distance, and of course much more imperfectly by the bulk of the 
spectators, which both rendered their looks of less consequence, and 
might make it in some degree necessary that their features should 
be exaggerated, the sound of their voices enlarged, and their whole 
appearance magnified beyond the life, in order to make the stronger 
impression. It is certain, that, as dramatic spectacles were the favour¬ 
ite entertainments of the Greeks and Romans, the attention given to 
their proper exhibition, and the magnificence of the apparatus be¬ 
stowed on their theatres, far exceeded any thing that has been at¬ 
tempted in modern ages. 

In the compositions of some of the French dramatic writers, 


528 


FRENCH TRAGEDY. 


[lect. xlvl 


particularly Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire, tragedy has appeared 
with much lustre and dignity. They must be allowed to have im¬ 
proved upon the ancients, in introducing more incidents, a greater 
variety of passions, a fuller display of characters, and in rendering 
the subject thereby more interesting. They have studied to imitate 
the ancient models in regularity of conduct. They are attentive 
to all the unities, and to all the decorums of sentiment and morali¬ 
ty; and their style is, generally, very poetical and elegant. What 
an English taste is most apt to censure in them, is the want of fer¬ 
vour, strength, and the natural language of passion. There is often 
too much conversation in their pieces, instead of action. They 
are too declamatory, as was before observed, when they should be 
passionate; too refined, when they should be simple. Voltaire 
freely acknowledges these defects of the French theatre. He ad¬ 
mits, that their best tragedies do not make a sufficient impression 
on the heart; that the gallantry which reigns in them, and the long 
fine-spun dialogue with which they over-abound, frequently spread 
a languor over them; that the authors seemed to be afraid of being 
too tragic; and very candidly gives it as his judgment, that an union 
of the vehemence and the action, which characterize the English 
theatre, with the correctness and decorum of the French theatre, 
would be necessary to form a perfect tragedy. 

Corneille, who is properly the father of French tragedy, is distin¬ 
guished by the majesty and grandeur of his sentiments, and the 
truitfulness of his imagination. His genius was unquestionably very 
rich, but seemed more turned towards the epic than the tragic vein; 
for, in general, he is magnificent and splendid, rather than tender 
and touching. Heisthemostdeclamatory of all the French trage¬ 
dians. He united the copiousness of Dryden with the fire of Lu¬ 
can, and he resembles them also in their faults, in their extrava¬ 
gance and impetuosity. He has composed a great number of tra¬ 
gedies, very unequal in their merit. His best and most esteemed 
pieces are, the Cid, Horace, Polyeuete, and Cinna. 

Racine, as a tragic poet, is much superior to Corneille. He want¬ 
ed the copiousness and grandeur of Corneille’s imagination ; but is 
free from his bombast, and excels him greatly in tenderness. Few 
poets, indeed, are more tender and moving than Racine. His Phse- 
dra, his Andromaque, his Athalie, and his Mithridate, are excellent 
dramatic performances, and do no small honour to the French stage. 
His language and versification are uncommonly beautiful. Of all 
the French authors, he appears to me to have most excelled in poet¬ 
ical style; to have managed their rhyme with the greatest advantage 
and facility, and to have given it the most complete harmony. Vol¬ 
taire has, again and again, pronounced Racine’s Athalie to be the 
4 Chef d’CEuvre’ of the French stage. It is altogether a sacred dra¬ 
ma, and owes much of its elevation to the majesty of religion; but 
it is less tender and interesting than Andromaque. 

Racine has formed two of his plays upon plans of Euripides. In 
the Phaedra he is extremely successful; but not so,in my opinion, in 
the Iphigenie; where he has degraded the ancient characters, by 


iLECTt XLVI.] 


FRENCH TRAGEDY. 


529 


unseasonable gallantry. Achilles is a French lover; and Eriphile, a 
modern lady.* 

Voltaire, in several of his tragedies, is inferior to none of his 
predecessors. In one great article, he has outdone them all: in the 
delicate and interesting situations which he has contrived to intro¬ 
duce. In these lie his chief strength. He is not, indeed, exempt 
from the defects of the other French tragedians, of wanting force, 
and of being sometimes too long and declamatory in his speeches; 
but his characters are drawn with spirit, his events are striking, and 
in his sentiments there is much elevation. His Zayre, A lzire, Merope, 
and Orphan of China, are four capital tragedies, and deserve the 
highest praise. What one might perhaps not expect, Voltaire is, in 
the strain of his sentiments, the most religious, and the most moral, 
of all tragic poets. 

Though the musical dramas of Metastasio fulfil not the character 


* The characters of Corneille and Racine are happily contrasted with each other, 
in the following beautiful lines of a French poet, which will gratify several readers: 

CORNEILLE. 

' ' * 

Ilium nobilibus majestas evehit alis 
Vertice tangentem nubes: stant ordine longo 
Magnanimi circum heroes, fulgentibus oranes 
Induti trabeis; Polyeuctus, Cinna, Seleucus, 

Et Cidus, et rugis signatus Horatius ora. 

RACINE. 

Hunc circumvolitat penna alludente Cupido, 

Vincula triumphatis insternens florea scenis; 

Colligit heec mollis genius, levibusque catenis 
Heroas stringit dociles, Phyrrhosque, Titosque, 

Pelidasque, ac Hippolytos, qui sponte sequuntur 
Servitium, facilesque ferunt in vincula palmas. 

Ingentes nimirum animos Cornelius ingens, 

Et quales habet ipse, suis heroibus afflat 
Sublimes sensus; vox olli mascula, magnum os, 

Nec morale sonans. Rapido fluit impetu vena, 

Vena Sophocleis non inficianda fluentis. 

Racinius Gallis haud visos ante theatris 
Mollior ingenio teneros induxit amores. 

Magnanimos quamvis sensus sub pectore verset 
Agrippina, licet Romano robore Burrhus 
Polleat, et magni generosa superbia Pori 
Non semel eniteat, tamen esse ad mollia natum 
Credideris vatem ; vox olli mellea, lenis 
Spiritus est; non ille animis vim concitus infert, 

Et ceecos animorum aditus rimatur, et imis 
Mentibus occultos, siren penetrabilis, ictus 
Insinuans, palpando ferit, laeditque placendo. 

Vena fluit facili non intermissa nitore, 

Nec rapidos semper volvit cum murmure fluctus, 

Agmine sed leni fluitat. Seu gramina lambit 
Rivulus, et caeco per prata virentia lapsu, 

Aufugiens, tacita fluit indeprensus arena; 

Flore micant rip® illimes; hue vulgus amantura 
Conrolat, et lacrymis auget rivalibus undas : 

Singultus und® referunt, gemitusque sonoros 
Ingeminant, molli gemitus imitante susurro. 

Templum Tragcedi®, per Fr. Marsy, c Societal^ Jestl* 

67 



53 0 


ENGLISH TRAGEDY. 


[lect. XLVI. 


of just and regular tragedies, they approach however so near to it, and 
possess so much merit, that it would be unjust to pass them over 
without notice. For the elegance of style, the charms of lyric po¬ 
etry, and the beauties of sentiment, they are eminent. They abound 
in well contrived and interesting situations. The dialogue, by its 
closeness and rapidity, carries a considerable resemblance to that of 
the ancient Greek tragedies; and is both more animated and more 
natural, than the long declamation of the French theatre. But the 
shortness of the several dramas, and the intermixture of so much 
yric poetry as belongs to this sort of composition, often occasions 
the course of the incidents to be hurried on too quickly, and pre¬ 
vents that consistent display of characters, and that full preparation 
tragedy 1 ^ WhlCh ^ necessary to § ive a P ro P er verisimilitude to 

It only now remains to speak of the state of tragedy in Great 
.Britain; the general character of which is, that it is more animated 
and passionate than French tragedy, but more irregular and incor¬ 
rect, and Jess attentive to decorum and to elegance. The pathetic 
it must always be remembered, is the soul of tragedy. The English! 
therefore, must be allowed to have aimed at the highest species of 
excellence; though, in the execution, they have not always ioined 
the other beauties that ought to accompany the pathetic. 

The first object which presents itself to us on the English theatre 
is the great Shakspeare. Great he may be justly called, as the’ 
extent and force of his natural genius, both for tragedy and come¬ 
dy, are altogether unrivalled.* But, at the same time, it is genius 
shooting wild ; deficient in just taste, and altogether unassisted by 
knowledge or art. Long has he been idolized by the British nation; 
much has been said, and much has been written concerning him • 
criticism has been drawn to the very dregs, in commentaries upon 
his words and witticisms ; and yet it remains, to this day, in doubt, 
whether his beauties, or his faults,be greatest. Admirable scenes, 
and passages without number, there are in his plays; passages be- 
yond what are to be found in any other dramatic writer; but there 
is hardly any one of his plays which can be called altogether a good 
one, or which can be read with uninterrupted pleasure from begin¬ 
ning to end. Besides extreme irregularities in conduct,and grotesque 
mixtures of serious and comic in one piece, we are often interrupted 
by unnatural thoughts, harsh expressions, a certain obscure bombast 
and a play upon words, which he is fond of pursuing; and these 
interruptions to our pleasure too frequently occur, on occasions 

* The character which Dryden has drawn of Shakspeare is not only just but uncom 
monly elegant and happy. ‘ He was the man, who of all modern, and perhap! undent" 
poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. All the images of nature were 
still present to him, and he drew them not laboriously, but luckily. When he describes 
any thing, you more than see it; you feel it too. They who accuse him of wanting learn 
mg, give him the greatest commendation. He was naturally learned. He needed 
not the spectacles of books to read nature. He looked inward, and found her there 
I cannot say he is every where alike. Were he so, I should do him injury, to compare 
him to the greatest of mankind. He is many times flat and insipid; hii comic wit dege 
neratmg into clenches; his serious swelling into bombast. But he is always great wlfen 
some great occasion is presented to him ’ Dryden’s Essay on Dramatic Poet? 






LECT. XLVI.] 


ENGLISH TRAGEDY. 


531 


when we would least wish to meet with them. All these faults, 
however, Shakspeare redeems, by two of the greatest excellencies 
which any tragic poet can possess; his lively and diversified paint¬ 
ings of character; his strong and natural expressions of passion. 
1 hese are his two chief virtues; on these his merit rests. Not¬ 
withstanding his many absurdities, all the while we are reading 
his plays, we find ourselves in the midst of our fellows; we meet 
with men, vulgar perhaps in their manners, coarse or harsh in 
their sentiments, but still they are men; they speak with human 
voices, and are actuated by human passions; we are interested in 
what they say or do, because we feel that they are of the same na¬ 
ture with ourselves. It is therefore no matter of wonder, that from 
the more polished and regular, but more cold and artificial perform¬ 
ances of other poets, the public should return with pleasure to 
such warm and genuine representations of human nature. Shak¬ 
speare possesses likewise the merit of having created, for himself, a 
sort of world of preternatural beings. His witches, ghosts, fairies, 
and spirits of all kinds, are described with such circumstances of 
awful and mysterious solemnity, and speak a language so peculiar to 
themselves, as strongly to affect the imagination. Ilis two master¬ 
pieces, and in which, in my opinion, the strength of his genius chiefly 
appears, are, Othello and Macbeth. With regard to his historical 
plays, they are, properly speaking, neither tragedies nor comedies; 
but a peculiar species of dramatic entertainment, calculated to de¬ 
scribe the manners of the times of which he treats, to exhibit the 
principal characters, and to fix our imagination on the most interest¬ 
ing events and revolutions of our own country.* 

After the age of Shakspeare, we can produce in the English lan¬ 
guage several detached tragedies of considerable merit. But we 
have not many dramatic writers whose whole works are entitled 
either to particular criticism, or very high praise. In the tragedies 
of Dryden and Lee, there is much fire, but mixed with much fustian 
and rant, Lee’s Theodosius, or the 4 Force of Love,’ is the best 
of his pieces, and, in some of the scenes, does not want tenderness 
and warmth, though romantic in the plan, and extravagant in the sen¬ 
timents. Otway was endowed with a high portion of the tragic 
spirit; which appears to great advantage in his two principal trage¬ 
dies, 4 The Orphan,’ and 4 Venice Preserved.’ In these, he is perhaps 
too tragic; the distresses being so deep, as to tear and overwhelm the 
mind. He is a writer, doubtless,of genius and strong passion; but 
at the same time, exceedingly gross and indelicate. No tragedies are 
less moral than those of Otway. There are no generous or noble 
sentiments in them; but a licentious spirit often discovers itself. 
He is the very opposite of the French decorum; and has contrived 
to introduce obscenity and indecent allusions, into the midst of deep 
tragedy. 


* See an excellent defence of Shakspeare’s Historical Plays, and several just obser¬ 
vations on his peculiar excellencies as a tragic poet, in Mrs. Montague’s Essay on the 
writings and genius of Shakspeare. 



532 


ENGLISH TRAGEDY. 


[ljegt. xlvi. 


Rowe’s tragedies make a contrast to those of Otway. He is full 
of elevated and moral sentiments. The poetry is often good, and 
the language always pure and elegant; but in most of his plays, he is 
too cold and uninteresting; and flowery rather than tragic. Two, 
however, he has produced, which deserve to be exempted from this 
censure, Jane Shore and the Fair Penitent; in both of which there 
are so many tender and truly pathetic scenes, as to render them 
justly favourites of the public. 

Dr. Young’s Revenge, is a play which discovers genius and fire; 
but wants tenderness, and turns too much upon the shocking and 
direful passions. In Congreve’s Mourning Bride, there are°some 
fine situations, and much good poetry. The two first acts are ad¬ 
mirable. The meeting of Almeria with her husband Osmyn, in the 
tomb of Adselmo, is one of the most solemn and striking situations 
to be found in any tragedy. The defects in the catastrophe, I point¬ 
ed out in the last lecture. Mr. Thomson’s tragedies are too full of stiff 
morality, which renders them dull and formal. Tancred and Sigis- 
munda, far excels the rest; and for the plot, the characters, and 
sentiments, justly deserves a place among the best English tragedies. 
Of later pieces, and of living authors, it is not my purpose to treat. 

Upon the whole; reviewing the tragic compositions of different 
nations, the following conclusions arise. A Greek tragedy is the re¬ 
lation of any distressful or melancholy incident; sometimes the ef¬ 
fect of passion or crime, oftener of the decree of the gods, simply 
exposed; without much variety of parts or events, but naturally and 
beautifully set before us; heightened by the poetry of the chorus. 

A French tragedy, is a series of artful and refined conversations, 
founded upon a variety of tragical and interesting situations ; carried 
on with little action and vehemence; but with much poetical beauty, 
and high propriety and decorum. An English tragedy is the com¬ 
bat of strong passions, set before us in all their violence; produeino- 
deep disasters; often irregularly conducted; abounding in action^ 
and filling the spectators with grief. The ancient tragedies were 
more natural and simple ; the modern are more artful and complex. 
Among the French, there is more correctness; among the English 
more fire. Andromaque and Zayre, soften; Othello and Venice 
Preserved, rend the heart. It deserves remark, that three of the 
greatest masterpieces of the French tragic theatre, turn wholly up¬ 
on religious subjects: the Athalie of Racine, the Polyeucte of Cor¬ 
neille, and the Zayre of Voltaire. The first is founded upon a his¬ 
torical passage of the Old Testament; in the other two, the distress 
arises from the zeal and attachment of the principal personages to 
the Christain faith; and in all the three, the authors have,°with 
much propriety, availed themselves of the majesty which may be 
derived from religious ideas. J 


{ a ) 


<tUESTION& 


Having treated of the dramatic ac¬ 
tion in tragedy, to treat of what does 
<^ur author next proceed ? What has 
been thought by some critics ? From 
what does it appear that this is more 
specious than solid? What does the 
dignity of tragedy, indeed, require? 
W hat effect may their high rank pro¬ 
duce ; but to what does it conduce very 
little and why ? What illustration of 
this remark follows ? 01* the moral cha¬ 
racters of the persons represented, what 
is observed ? What, in the conduct of 
tragedy, demands the poet’s greatest 
attention? For this end, what is not 
necessary ; and why ? But, withal, of 
what must the author beware; and for 
What reason ? How must the stings of 
the remorse of guilt, ever be represent¬ 
ed ? What is Aristotle’s opinion on the 
characters proper for tragedy; and 
why? Of mixed characters, what is 
observed ? Of such persons, what is far¬ 
ther remarked ; but when is it always 
more instructive; and why? Upon 
these principles, at what is our author 
surprised ? What is the subject of the 
CEdipus; what does it excite; and of it, 
as it is conducted by Sophocles, what is 
observed ?. Of the subjects of the an¬ 
cient Greek tragedies, what must be 
acknowledged ? With what were they 
too much mixed ? What instances of 
this kind are mentioned ? Though ma¬ 
ny moral sentiments occurred in the 
course of the drama, yet what remark 
follows ? How has modern tragedy 
aimed at a higher object ? To illus¬ 
trate this remark, what instances are 
mentioned, and what is said of them ? 
In tragedy, what passion has most oc¬ 
cupied tile modern stage ? Where was 
it, in a manner, wholly unknown? 
How is this illustrated? To what was 
this owing ? What remark follows; 
and on this subject, what is the opinion 
of Voltaire? To what does the mixing 
of it perpetually with all the important 
events that belong to the tragic stage, 
Tend ? Of* what are the Douglas of Mr. 
Home, &c. a sufficient proof? On this 
subject, what seems lo be clear ? What 
sort of love ought it to be ; and why ? 
In what plays are the bad effects of 
this sufficiently conspicuous ? After the 
tragic poet has arranged his subject, 
and chosen his personages, what is the 
next thing to which he must attend ? 
Of the necessity of observing this gene¬ 
ra! rule, what is observed: and why 


not ? As tragedy is the region of pas¬ 
sion, what follows? What is a preroga¬ 
tive of genius given to few ? What does 
it require ; and why ? How is this re¬ 
mark illustrated ? Of a person in what 
situation, is this the language? Yet 
what remark follows ? What instance 
have we of it ? Repeat the passage. Of 
it, what is observed? How does the 
person who is himself concerned, speak 
on such an occasion? Such representa¬ 
tions of passion in poetry, are no better 
t han what ? On some other occasions, 
into what are poets too apt to run ; and 
why ? By what ex am [ties is this re¬ 
mark illustrated ; and in such passages, 
what do we see ? What is the charac¬ 
ter of language spoken under the in¬ 
fluence of real passion ? In the senti¬ 
ments of real passion, with what do wc 
never meet; and why? 01’ passion, 
what is farther observed? When we 
examine the French tragedians by 
these principles, what, do we find ; and 
what remark follows? How is this il¬ 
lustrated ? Of Sophocles and Euripides, 
what is here observed; and also of 
Shakspeare? To wliat scene does our 
author refer, in support of this remark ? 
What is said of it ? With regard to 
moral sentiments and reflections in tra¬ 
gedies, wliat is observed; and why ? 
With what tragedies is this remarkably 
the case; and what are they ? Of wliat, 
however, is our author not of opinion ; 
and why ? When do serious and moral 
reflections naturally occur to persons of 
all descriptions ? Why is almost every 
human being, then, disposed to be seri¬ 
ous; and, therefore, what follows? 
What instance is here given to illus¬ 
trate this remark; and of Addison’s 
Cato, what is here observed ? What 
should the style and versification of 
tragedy be ? Why is our blank verse 
happily suited to this purpose? Why 
should monotony, above all things, be 
avoided by a tragic poet ? Into what 
should he not sink ; and what should 
his style always have ? W hat should 
it assume ? What, is one of the greatest 
misfortunes of French tragedy? What 
requires this; and why ? What is its 
effect? What does Voltaire maintain? 
What does he say? Of this idea, what 
is observed? With regard to what, need 
nothing be said ; only that they were 
what ? 

Having thus treated of all the diffe¬ 
rent kinds of tragedy, with what does 


4 IT 





532 b 


QUESTIONS. 


[LECT. XLVI. 


our author conclude the subject? Re¬ 
peat the distinguishing characters of 
the Greek tragedy, which have been 
mentioned. From what were most of 
their plots taken ? What instances are 
given ? What does iEschylus exhibit ? 
What are his characteristics ? Why is 
he obscure and difficult? With what 
does he abound ; what does he possess; 
and in what does he delight ? What 
are beautiful in their kind, and strongly 
expressive of his genius ? What is said 
of Sophocles? What evidence have we 
of the eminence of his descriptive ta¬ 
lent ? How does he compare with Eu¬ 
ripides ? What merits do they both pos¬ 
sess, as tragic poets? Of theatrical 
representation on the stages of Greece 
and Rome, what is observed ? What 
has the Abbe du Bos proved ? What 
has he farther attempted to prove ? Of 
the actors in tragedy, what is obser¬ 
ved ? What is said of these masks ? 
When different emotions were to ap¬ 
pear in the same person, how was the 
change expressed ? With what disad¬ 
vantages was this contrivance attend¬ 
ed ? In defence of them, what, at the 
same time, must be remembered? In 
whose hands has tragedy appeared 
with much lustre and dignity ? How 
have they improved upon the ancients? 
In what have they studied to imitate 
them ? To what are they attentive ? 
In them, what is an English taste most 
apt to censure ? How is this defect il¬ 
lustrated ? What, does Voltaire admit; 
and what does he very candidly give 
as his judgment? By what is Cor¬ 
neille distinguished? Of his genius, 
what is observed; and why ? How does 
he compare with other French trage¬ 
dians*? What did he write ; and in 
what, also, did he resemble them? 
What has he composed; and which 
are his best ? How does Racine com¬ 
pare with Corneille? Of his tenderness, 
what is observed; and of what per¬ 
formances, what is remarked ? What 
is said of his language and versifica¬ 
tion? In what has he excelled all the 
French authors? What evidence of 
this is given ; and what is said of it ? 
Upon whose plans has Racine formed 
two of his'plays; and of them, what is 
remarked ? Of Voltaire, what is obser¬ 
ved ? In what has he outdone them 
all ? From what is he not exempt; but 
how are his characters drawn ? Which 
are four excellent tragedies? In the 
strains of his sentiments, what do we 
unexpectedly find? What is said of 


the musical dramas of Metastasio? 
For what are they eminent; and in 
what do they abound ? Of the dialogue, 
what is observed? What remark fol¬ 
lows ? To speak of what do we now pro¬ 
ceed ; and what is their general cha¬ 
racter ? As the pathetic is the soul of 
tragedy, what follows ? What is the 
first object which presents itself to us, 
on the English theatre? What are 
his merits; and what are his faults ? 
What are his two chief virtues? How 
is this illustrated ? What, therefore, is 
no matter of wonder? What merit 
does Shakspeare likewise possess ? 
How is this illustrated ? Which are his 
two masterpieces? Of his historical 
plays, what is observed ? After the age 
of Shakspeare, what can we produce; 
but what have we not ? Of Dryden and 
Lee, and of Lee’s Theodosius, what is 
observed? With what was Otway en¬ 
dowed, and where does it appear to 
great advantage? Of these, what is 
farther remarked ? What does he pos¬ 
sess ? In what does his want of morali¬ 
ty appear ; of what is he the opposite; 
and what has he contrived to do ? How 
do Rowe’s tragedies compare with those 
of Otway ? To this remark, what two 
exceptions are there ; and what is said 
of them ? What is said of Dr. Young’s 
Revenge; and of Congreve’s Mourn 
ing Bride ? Of Mr. Thompson’s trage¬ 
dies, what is remarked ? Which far ex¬ 
cels the rest, and what is said of it ? 
On reviewing the tragic compositions 
of different nations, what conclusions 
arise ? In what did the ancients and in 
what do the moderns excel ? How do 
the French and the English compare ; 
and what illustration follows? What 
deserves remark; and on what are they 
respectively founded ? 

= ANALYSIS. 

1. Tragedy. 

a. The characters. 

a. Aristotle’s observations on them. 

b. The subjects of Greek tragedies. 

c. Love predominant on the modern 
stage. 

B. The sentiments. 

a. The natural language of passion to 
be observed. 

b. Moral reflections considered. 

c. The style and versification. 

a ' The disadvantages of French rhyme. 

Z. Greek tragedy. 

a. ASschylus—Sophocles—Euripides. 

b. Peculiarities in the representation. 

3. French tragedy. 

a. Corneille—Racine—Voltaire. 

4. English tragedy. 

a. Shakspeare—Dryden—Otvvav, & r 

5. The conclusion. 










( 533 ) 


LECTURE XLYIf. 



COMEDY....GREEK AND ROMAN....FRENCH....ENGLISH 

COMEDY. 

Comedy is sufficiently discriminated from tragedy, by its general 
spirit and strain. While pity and terror, and the other strong pas¬ 
sions,form the province of the latter, the chief or rather sole instru¬ 
ment of the former is ridicule. Comedy proposes for its object 
neither the great sufferings nor the great crimes of men ; but their 
follies and slighter vices, those parts of their character which raise 
in beholders a sense of impropriety, which expose them to be cen¬ 
sured and laughed at by others, or which render them troublesome 
in civil society. 

This general idea of comedy, as a satirical exhibition of the im¬ 
proprieties and follies of mankind, is an idea very moral and useful. 
There is nothing in the nature, or general plan of this kind of com¬ 
position, that renders it liable to censure. To polish the manners 
of men, to promote attention to the proper decorums of social be¬ 
haviour, and above all, to render vice ridiculous, is doing real service 
to the world. Many vices might be more successfully exploded, by 
employing ridicule against them, than by serious attacks and argu¬ 
ments. At the same time it must be confessed, that ridicule is an 
instrument of such a nature, that when managed by unskilful, or im¬ 
proper hands, there is hazard of its doing mischief, instead of good, 
to society. For ridicule is far from being, as some have maintained 
it to be, a proper test of truth. On the contrary, it is apt to mis¬ 
lead, and seduce, by the colours which it throws upon its objects; 
and it is often more difficult to judge, whether these colours be na¬ 
tural and proper, than it is to distinguish between simple truth and 
error. Licentious writers, therefore, of the comic class, have too 
often had it in their power to cast a ridicule upon characters and ob¬ 
jects which did not deserve it. But this is a fault, not owing to the 
nature of comedy, but to the genius and turn of the writers of it. In 
the hands of a loose, immoral author, comedy will mislead and cor¬ 
rupt ; while, in those of a virtuous and well-intentioned one, it will 
be not only a gay and innocent, but a laudable and useful entertain¬ 
ment. French comedy is an excellent school of manners; while 
English comedy has been too often the school of vice. 

The rules respecting the dramatic action, which I delivered in the 
first lecture upon tragedy, belong equally to comedy ; and hence, 
of course, our disquisitions concerning it are shortened. It is equally 
necessary to both these forms of dramatic composition, that there 
be a proper unity of action and subject, that the unities of time and 
place be, as much as possible, preserved; that is, that the time of 
the action be brought within reasonable bounds; and the place of 
the action never changed, at least, not during the course of each 


534 


COMEDY. 


[LECT. XLVIl 


act; that the several scenes or successive conversations be properly 
linked together; that the stage be never totally evacuated till the 
act closes; and that the reason should appear to us, why the per¬ 
sonages who fill up the different scenes, enter and go off the stage, 
at the time when they are made to do so. The scope of all these 
rules, I showed, was to bring the imitation as near as possible to 
probability; which is always necessary, in order to any imitation giv¬ 
ing us pleasure. This reason requires, perhaps, a stricter observance 
of the dramatic rules in comedy, than in tragedy. For the action of 
comedy being more familiar to us than that of tragedy, more like 
what we are accustomed to see in common life, we judge more easi¬ 
ly of what is probable, and are more hurt by the want of it. The 
probable and the natural, both in the conduct of the story, and in 
the characters and sentiments of the persons who are introduced, are 
the great foundation, it must always be remembered, of the whole 
beauty of comedy. 

The subjects of tragedy are not limited to any country, or to any 
age. The tragic poet may lay his scene in whatever region he 
pleases. He may form his subject upon the history, either of his 
own, or of a foreign country; and he may take it from any period 
that is agreeable to him, however remote in time. The reverse of 
this holds in comedy, for a clear and obvious reason. In the great 
vices, great virtues, and high passions, men of all countries and ages 
resemble one another; and are therefore equally subjects for the tra¬ 
gic muse. But those decorums of behaviour, those lesser discrimi¬ 
nations of character, which afford subject for comedy, change with 
the differences of countries and times; and can never be so well un¬ 
derstood by foreigners, as by natives. We weep for the heroes of 
Greece and Rome, as freely as we do for those of our own country; 
but we are touched with the ridicule of such manners and such cha¬ 
racters only, as we see and know; and therefore the scene and subject 
of comedy, should always be laid in our own country, and in our own 
times. The comic poet who aims at correcting improprieties and 
follies of behaviour, should study ‘to catch the manners living as 
they rise.’ It is not his business to amuse us with a tale of the last 
age, or with a Spanish or a French intrigue, but to give us pictures 
taken from among ourselves; to satirize reigning and present vices; 
to exhibit to the age a faithful copy of itself, with its humours, its 
follies, and its extravagances. It is only by laying his plan in this 
manner, that he can add weight and dignity to the entertainment 
which he gives us. Plautus, it is true, and Terence, did not follow 
this rule. They laid the scene of their comedies in Greece, and 
adopted the Greek laws and customs. But it must be remembered, 
that comedy was, in their age, but a new entertainment in Rome; 
and that then they contented themselves with imitating, often with 
translating merely, the comedies of Menander, and other Greek 
writers. In after times, it is known that the Romans had the ‘ Co- 
moedia Togata,’ or what was founded on their own manners, as well 
as the 4 Comcedia Palliata, 5 or what was taken from the Greeks. 

Comedy may be divided into two kinds; comedy of character. 


LECT. XLVII.] 


€OMEDV. 


535 


and comedy of intrigue, in the latter, the plot, or the action of 
the play, is made the principal object. In the former, the display 
of some peculiar character is chiefly aimed at; the action is contri¬ 
ved altogether with a view to this end. and is treated as subordinate, 
to it. The French abound most in comedies of character. AK 
Moliere’s capital pieces are of this sort; his Avare, for instance. 
Misanthrope, Tartuffe; and such are Destouches , also, and those of 
the other chief French comedians. The English abound more in 
comedies of intrigue. In the plays of Congreve, and, in general, 
in all our comedies, there is much more stor} r , more bustle, and ac,r 
tion, than on the French theatre. 

In order to give this sort of composition its proper advantage, 
these two kinds should be properly mixed together. Without some 
interesting and well-conducted story, mere conversation is apt to be ¬ 
come insipid. There should be always as much intrigue as to give 
us something to wish, and something to fear. The incidents should 
so succeed one another, as to produce striking situations, and to fix 
our attention; while they afford at the same time a proper field for 
the exhibition of character. For the poet must never forget, that 
to exhibit characters and manners, is his principal object. The ac¬ 
tion in comedy, though it demands his care, in order to render it 
animated and natural, is a less significant and important part of the 
performance, than the action in tragedy: as in comedy, it is what 
men say, and how they behave, that draws our attention, rather than 
what they suffer. Hence it is a great fault to overcharge it with too 
much intrigue; and those intricate Spanish plots that, were fashion 
able for a while, carried on by perplexed apartments, dark entries, 
and disguised habits, are now justly condemned and laid aside: for 
by such conduct, the main use of comedy was lost. The attention 
of the spectators, instead of being directed towards any display of 
characters, was fixed upon the surprising turns and revolutions of the 
intrigue; and comedy was changed into a mere novel. 

In the management of characters, one of the most common faults 
of comic writers, is the carrying of them too far beyond life. Where*- 
ever ridicule is concerned, it is indeed extremely difficult to hit the 
precise point where true wit ends, and -buffoonery begins. When 
the miser, for instance, in Plautus, searching the person whom he 
suspects for having stolen his casket, after examining first his right 
hand, and then his left, cries out ( Ostende etiam tertiam/ 6 show me 
your third hand/ (a stroke too which Molicre has copied from him) 
there is no one but must be sensible of the extravagance. Certain 
degrees of exaggeration are allowed to the comedian; but there 
are limits set to it by nature and good taste; and supposing the mi¬ 
ser to be ever so much engrossed by his jealousy and his suspicions, 
it is impossible to conceive any man in his wits suspecting another 
of having more than two hands. 

Characters in comedy ought to be clearly distinguished from one 
another; but the artificial contrasting of characters, and the intro- 
glueing them always in pairs, and by opposites, give too theatrical and 


536 


COMEDY. 


[lect. xlvii. 


affected an air to the piece. This is become too common a resource 
of comic writers, in order to heighten their characters, and display 
them to more advantage. As soon as the violent and impatient per¬ 
son arrives upon the stage, the spectator knows that, in the next 
scene, he is to be contrasted with the mild and good-natured man; 
or if one of the lovers introduced be remarkably gay and airy, we 
are sure that his companion is to be a grave and serious lover; like 
Frankly and Bellamy, Clarinda and Jacintha, in Dr. Hoadly’s Sus¬ 
picious Husband. Such production of characters by pairs, is like 
the employment of the figure antithesis in discourse, which, as I for¬ 
merly observed, gives brilliancy indeed upon occasions, but is too ap¬ 
parently a rhetorical artifice. In every sort of composition, the per¬ 
fection of art is to conceal art. A masterly writer will, therefore, 
give us his characters, distinguished rather by such shades of diversity 
as are Commonly found in society, than marked with such strong op¬ 
positions, as are rarely brought into actual contrast in any of the 
circumstances of life. 

The style of comedy ought to be pure, elegant, and lively; very 
seldom rising higher than the ordinary tone of polite conversation, 
and, upon no occasion, descending into vulgar, mean, and gross ex¬ 
pressions. Here the French rhyme, which in many of their come¬ 
dies they have preserved, occurs as an unnatural bondage. Certain¬ 
ly, if prose belongs to any composition whatever, it is to that which 
imitates the conversation of men in ordinary life. One of the most 
difficult circumstances in writing comedy, and one,too, upon which 
the success of it very much depends, is to maintain, throughout, a 
current of easy, genteel, unaffected dialogue, without pertness and 
ihppancy; without too much studied and unseasonable wit; without 
dulness and formality. Too few of our English comedies are dis¬ 
tinguished for this happy turn of conversation; most of them are 
liable to one or other of the exceptions I have mentioned. The 
Careless Husband, and, perhaps, we may add the Provoked Husband, 
and the Suspicious Husband, seem to have more merit than most of 
them, for easy and natural dialogue. 

These are the chief observations that occur to me, concerning the 
general principles of this species of dramatic writing, as distinguish- 
ed from tragedy. But its nature and spirit will be still better under¬ 
stood, by a short history of its progress ; and a view of the manner 
m which it has been carried on by authors of different nations. 

J * s generally supposed to have been more ancient among 
the Greeks than comedy. We have fewer lights concerning the 
origin and progress of the latter. What is most probable is, that, 
like the other, it took its rise accidentally from the diversions pecu¬ 
liar to the feast of Bacchus, and from Thespis and his cart: till by 
degrees, it diverged into an entertainment of a quite different na¬ 
ture from solemn and heroic tragedy. Critics distinguish three 
stages of comedy among the Greeks; which they call the ancient, 
the middle, and the new. 

The ancient comedy consisted in direct and avowed satire against 
particular known persons, who were brought upon the stage by 


I.:EOT. XLVII.] 


ANCIENT COMEDY. 


537 


name. Of this nature are the plays of Aristophanes, eleven of 
which are still extant; plays of a very singular nature, and wholly 
different from all compositions which have, since that age, borne 
the name of comedy. They show what a turbulent and licentious 
republic that of Athens was, and what unrestrained scope the Athe¬ 
nians gave to ridicule, when they could suffer the most illustrious 
personages of their state, their generals, and their magistrates, Cleon, 
Lamachus, Nicias, Alcibiades, not to mention Socrates the philoso¬ 
pher, and Euripides the poet, to be publicly made the subject of 
comedy. Several of Aristophanes’ plays are wholly political satires 
upon public management, and the conduct of generals and states¬ 
men, during the Peloponnesian war. They are so full of political 
allegories and allusions, that it is impossible to understand them with¬ 
out a considerable knowledge of the history of those times. They 
abound, too, with parodies of the great tragic poets, particularly of 
Euripides; to whom the author bore much enmity, and has written 
two comedies, almost wholly in order to ridicule him. 

Vivacity,.satire, and buffoonery, are the characteristics of Aristo¬ 
phanes. Genius and force he displays upon many occasions; but 
his performances, upon the whole, are not calculated to give us any 
high opinion of the Attic taste of wit, in his age. They seem, indeed, 
to have been composed for the mob. The ridicule employed in 
them is extravagant; the wit, for the most part, buffoonish and farci¬ 
cal; the personal raillery, biting and cruel; and the obscenity that 
reigns in them, is gross and intolerable. The treatment given by 
this comedian, to Socrates the philosopher, in his play of 4 The 
Clouds,’ is well known ; but however it might tend to disparage So¬ 
crates in the public esteem, P. Brumoy, in his Theatre Grec, 
makes it appear, that it could not have been, as is commonly sup¬ 
posed, the cause of decreeing the death of that philosopher, which 
did not happen till twenty-three years after the representation of 
Aristophanes’ Clouds. There is a chorus in Aristophanes’ plays; 
but altogether of an irregular kind. Lt is partly serious, partly comic; 
sometimes mingles in the action, sometimes addresses the spectators, 
defends the author, and attacks his enemies. 

Soon after the days of Aristophanes, the liberty of attacking per¬ 
sons on the stage by name, being found oi dangerous consequence 
to the public peace, was prohibited by law. The chorus also was, 
at this period, banished from the comic theatre, as having been an 
instrument of too much license and abuse. Then, what is called 
the middle comedy, took rise ; which was no other than an elusion 
of the law. Fictitious names, indeed, were employed ; but living 
persons were still attacked ; and described in such a manner as to 
be sufficiently known. Of these comic pieces, we have no remains. 
To them succeeded the new comedy ; when the stage being oblig¬ 
ed to desist wholly from personal ridicule, became, what it is now, 
the picture of manners and characters, but not of particular persons. 
Menander was the most distinguished author, of this kind, among 
the Greeks; and both from the imitations of him by Terence, and 

fi 8 


>3S 


SPANISH COMEDY. 


[lect. xlvii 


the account gjiven of him by Plutarch, we have much reason to re¬ 
gret that his writings have perished ; as he appears to have reform¬ 
ed, in a very high degree, the public taste, and to have set the 
model of correct, elegant, and moral comedy. 

The only remains which we now have of the new corned}^ amon^ 
the ancients, are the plays of Plautus and Terence; both of whom 
were formed upon the Greek writers. Plautus is distinguished for 
very expressive language, and a great degree of the vis comica. 
As lie wrote in an early period, he bears several marks of the rude¬ 
ness of the dramatic art among the Romans, in his time. He 
opens his plays with prologues, which sometimes pre-occupy the sub¬ 
ject of the whole piece. The representation too, and the action of 
the comedy, are sometimes confounded ; the actor departing from 
ms character and addressing the audience. There is too much low 
wit and scurrility in Plautus; too much of quaint conceit, and play 
upon words. But withal, he displays more variety and more force 
than Terence. His characters are always strongly marked, though 
sometimes coarsely. His A mphytrion has been copied both by Me- 
here and by Dryden; and his Miser also, (in the Auduiaria ) is the 
foundation of a capital play of Moliere’s, which has been once and 
again imitated on the English stage. Than Terence, nothing can 
be more delicate, more polished, and elegant. His style is a model 
Gl the purest and most graceful Latinity. His dialogue is always de¬ 
cent and correct; and he possesses, beyond most writers, the art of 
relating with that beautiful picturesque simplicity, which never 
. 1 s tp please. His morality is, in general, unexceptionable. The 
situations which he introduces are often tender and interesting; and 
many of his sentiments touch the heart. Hence, he may be consider¬ 
ed as the founder of that serious comedy, which has of late years 
^ e 7 v . ed? and °( which I shall have occasion afterwards to speak. 

It he tails in any thing, it is in sprightliness and strength. Both in 
his characters, and in his plots, there is too much sameness and uni¬ 
formity throughout all his plays; he copied Menander, and is said 
not to have equalled him.* In order to form a perfect comic author, 
an union would be requisite of the spirit and fire of Plautus, with the 
grace and correctness of Terence. 

When we enter on the view of modern comedy, one of the first 
objects which presents itself, is, the Spanish theatre, which has been 
lemarkably fertile m dramatic productions. Lopez de Vega, Guillin 
and Calderon, are the chief Spanish comedians. Lopez de Vega who 
is by much the most famous of them, is said to have written above a 
thousand plays; but our surprise at the number of his productions 
will be diminished, by being informed of their nature. From the 


* Juliu j . c *sar h as given us his opinion of Terence, in the followin'* line, which ore 
preserved in the life of Terence, ascribed to Suetonius : ’ " h 

Tu quoque, tu in summis, o dimidiate Menander 
Poneris, et merito puri sermonis amator; 

Lenibus atque utinam scriptis adjuncta foret vis 

Comica, ut sequato virtus pollerct honore 

Cum Graecis, neque in hac despectus parte jaceres * 

Unum hoc maceror et doleo tibi deesse, Terenti. * 






lect. xlyii.] FRENCH COMEDY. 


539 


account which M. Perron de Caster a, a French writer, gives of 
them, it would seem that our Shakspeare is perfectly a regular and 
methodical author, in comparison of Lopez. He throws aside all 
regard to the three unities, or to any of the established forms of dra¬ 
matic writing. One play often includes many years, nay, the whole 
life of a man. The scene, during the first act, is laid in Spain, the 
next in Italy, and the third in Africa. His plays are mostly of the 
historical kind, founded on the annals of the country; and they are 
generally, a sort of tragic-comedies; or a mixture of heroic speeches, 
serious incidents, war and slaughter, with much ridicule and buf¬ 
foonery. Angels and gods, virtues and vices, christain religion and 
pagan mythology, are all frequently jumbled together. In short, 
they are all plays like no other dramatic compositions; full of the ro¬ 
mantic and extravagant. At the same time, it is generally admitted, 
that in the works of Lopez de Vega, there are frequent marks of 
genius, and much force of imagination; many well drawn charac¬ 
ters; many happy situations; many striking and interesting surpri¬ 
ses ; and from the source of his rich invention, the dramatic writers 
of other countries are said to have frequently drawn their materials. 
He himself apologizes for the extreme irregularity of his composi¬ 
tion, from the prevailing taste of his countrymen, who delighted in 
a variety of events, in strange and surprising adventures, and a laby¬ 
rinth of intrigues, much more than in a natural and regularly con¬ 
ducted story. 

The general characters of the French comic theatre are, that it is 
correct, chaste, and decent. Several writers of considerable note it 
has produced, such as Regnard, Dufresn}?, Dancourt, and Marivaux; 
but the dramatic author, in whom the French glory most, and whom 
they justly place at the head of all their comedians, is the famous 
Moliere. There is, indeed, no author in all the fruitful and distin¬ 
guished age of Louis XIV. who has attained a higher reputation than 
Moliere, or who has more nearly reached the summit of perfection 
in his own art, according to the judgment of all the French critics. 
Voltaire boldly pronounces him to be the most eminent comic poet of 
any age or country ; nor, perhaps, is this the decision of mere par¬ 
tiality ; for,taking him upon the whole, I know none who deserves to 
be preferred to him. Moliere is always the satirist only of vice or folly. 
He has selected a great variety of ridiculous characters peculiar to the 
times in which he lived, and he has generally placed the ridicule just¬ 
ly. He possessed strong comic powers; he is full of mirth and plea¬ 
santry; and his pleasantry is always innocent. His comedies in verse, 
such as the Misanthrope and Tartuffe, are a kind ofdignified comedy, 
in which vice is exposed in the style of elegant and polite satire. In 
his prose comedies, though there is abundance of ridicule, yet there 
is never any thing found to offend a modest ear, or to throw con¬ 
tempt on sobriety and virtue. Together with those high qualities, 
Moliere has also defects which Voltaire, though his professed pa¬ 
negyrist, candidly admits. He is acknowledged not to be happy 
in the unravelling of his plots. Attentive more to the strong exhi¬ 
bition of characters, than to the conduct of the intrigue, his unravel- 
41 


540 ENGLISH COMEDY. [lect. xlvii. 

ling is frequently brought on with too little preparation, and in an im¬ 
probable manner. In his verse comedies, he is sometimes not suffi¬ 
ciently interesting, and too full of long speeches; and in his more 
risible pieces in prose, he is censured for being too farcical. Few 
writers, however, if any, ever possessed the spirit, or attained the true 
end of comedy so perfectly, upon the whole, as Moliere. His Tar- 
tuffe, in the style of grave comedy, and his Avare, in the gay, are 
accounted his two capital productions. 

From the English theatre, we are naturally led to expect a greater 
variety of original characters in comedy, and bolder strokes of wit 
and humour, than are to be found on any other modern stage. Hu¬ 
mour is, in a great measure, the peculiar province of the English na¬ 
tion. The nature of such a free government as ours; and that un¬ 
restrained liberty which our manners allow to every man, of living 
entirely after his own taste, afford full scope to the display of singu¬ 
larity of character, and to the indulgence of humour in all its forms. 
Whereas, in France, the influence of a despotic court, the more es¬ 
tablished subordination of ranks, and the uni versal observance of the 
forms ol politeness and decorum, spread a much greater uniformity 
over the outward behaviour and characters of men. Hence,comedy 
has a more ample field, and can flow with a much freer veiiijin Bri¬ 
tain than in France. But it is extremely unfortunate, that, together 
with the freedom and boldness of the comic spirit in Britainfthere 
should have been joined such a spirit of indecency and licentiousness, 
as has disgraced English comedy beyond that of any nation, since 
the days of Aristophanes. 

The first age, however, of English comedy, was not infected by 
this spirit. Neither the plays of Shakspeare, nor those of Ben 
Jonson, can be accused of immoral tendency. Shakspeare’s gen¬ 
eral character, which I gave in the last lecture, appears with as great 
advantage in his comedies as in his tragedies; a strong, fertile, and 
creative genius, irregular in conduct, employed too often in amusing 
the mob, but singularly rich and happy in the description of charac¬ 
ters and manners. Jonson is more regular in the conduct of his 
pieces, but stiff and pedantic; though not destitute of dramatic ge¬ 
nius. In the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher, much fancy and in¬ 
vention appear, and several beautiful passages may be found. But 
in general, they abound with romantic and improbable incidents, with 
overcharged and unnatural characters, and with coarse and o*ross al¬ 
lusions. These comedies of the last age, by the change of public 
manners, and of the turn of conversation, since their time, are now 
become too obsolete to be very agreeable. For we must observe, 
that comedy, depending much on the prevailing modes of external 
behaviour, becomes sooner antiquated than any other species of wri¬ 
ting; and, when antiquated, it seems harsh to us, and loses its power 
of pleasing. This is especially the case with respect to the comedies 
of our own country, where the change of manners is more sensible 
and striking, than in any foreign production. In our own country, 
the present mode of behaviour is always the standard of politeness 
and whatever departs from it appears uncouth; whereas, in the writ- 


LECf. XLVII.J 


ENGLISH COMEDY. 


541 


ings of foreigners, we are less acquainted with any standard of this 
kind, and, of course, are less hurt by the want of it. Plautus appear¬ 
ed more antiquated to the Romans, in the age of Augustus, than 
he does now to us. It is a high proof of Shakspeare’s uncommon 
genius, that, notwithstanding these disadvantages, his character of 
Falstaffis to this day admired, and his 44 Merry Wives of Windsor” 
read with pleasure. 

It was not till the era of the restoration of King Charles II. that 
the licentiousness which was observed, at that period, to infect the 
court, and the nation in general, seized, in a peculiar manner, upon 
comedy as its province, and, for almost a whole century, retained 
possession of it. It was then, first, that the rake became the pre¬ 
dominant character, and, with some exceptions, the hero of every 
comedy. The ridicule was thrown, not upon vice and folly, but 
much more commonly upon chastity and sobriety. At the end of 
the play, indeed, the rake is commonly, in appearance, reformed, 
and professes that he is to become a sober man; but throughout the 
play, he is set up as the model of a fine gentleman; and the agree¬ 
able impression made by a sort of sprightly licentiousness, is left 
upon the imagination, as a picture of the pleasurable enjoyment 
of life; while the reformation passes slightly away, as a matter of 
mere form. To what sort of moral conduct such public entertain¬ 
ments as these tend to form the youth of both sexes, may be easily 
imagined. Yet this was the spirit which prevai’ed upon 
the comic stage of Great Britain, not only during the reign of 
Charles II. but throughout the reigns of King William and Queen 
Anne, and down to the days of king George II. 

Dryden was the first considerable dramatic writer after the resto¬ 
ration ; in whose comedies, as in all his works, there are found many 
strokes of genius, mixed with great carelessness, and visible marks 
of hasty composition. As he sought to please only, he went along 
with the manners of the times; and has carried through all his come¬ 
dies, that vein of dissolute licentiousness which was then fashiona¬ 
ble. In some of them, the indecency was so gross, as to occasion, 
even in that age, a prohibition of being brought upon the stage.* 

Since his time, the writers of comedy, of greatest note, have been 
Cibber, Vanburgh, Farquhar, and Congreve. Cibber has written 
a great many comedies; and though in several of them there be 
much sprightliness, and a certain pert vivacity peculiar to him, yet 
they are so forced and unnatural in the incidents, as to have gene¬ 
rally sunk into obscurity, except two which have always continued 
in high favour with the public, 4 The Careless Husband,’ and 4 The 
Provoked Husband.’ The former is remarkable for the polite and 
easy turn of the dialogue; and, with the exception of one indelicate 
scene, is tolerably moral,too,in the conduct and in the tendency. 

* ‘The mirth which he excites in comedy will, perhaps, be found not so much to 
arise from any original humour, or peculiarity of character, nicely distinguished, and 
diligently pursued, as from incidents and circumstances, artifices and surprises, from 
iests of action, rather than sentiment. What he had of humorous or passionate, he 
seems to have had, not from nature, but from other poets: if not always a plagiary, 
yet, at least, an imitator.’ Johnson’s Life of Dryden. 




ENGLISH COMEDY. 


542 


[lect. xlvii 


The latter, e The Provoked Husband,’ (which was the joint produc- 
tion of Vanburgh and Cibber,) is, perhaps, on the whole, the best 
comedy in the English language. It is liable, indeed, to one critical 
objection, of having a double plot; as the incident of the Wrong- 
head family, and those of Lord Townley’s, are separate and inde¬ 
pendent of each other. But this irregularity is compensated by the 
natural characters, the fine painting," and the happy strokes of hu¬ 
mour with which it abounds. We are, indeed, surprised to find so 
unexceptionable a comedy proceeding from two such loose authors; 
for, in its general strain, it is calculated to expose licentiousness and 
folly ; and would do honour to any stage. 

Sir John Vanburgh has spirit, wit, and ease; but he is, to the last 
degree, gross and indelicate. He is one of the most immoral of 
all our comedians. His 4 Provoked Wife’ is full of such indecent 
sentiments and allusions, as ought to explode it out of all reputable 
society. His 4 Relapse’ is equally censurable; and these are his 
only two considerable pieces. Congreve is, unquestionably, a wri¬ 
ter of genius. He is lively, witty, and sparkling; full of character, 
and full of action. His chief fault, as a comic writer, is, that he 
oveiflows witn wit. It is often introduced unseasonably; and, al¬ 
most every where, there is too great a proportion of it for natural 
well-bred conversation. * Farquhar is a light and gay writer; less coin 
rect and less sparkling than Congreve ; but he has more ease ; and 
perhaps fully as great a share of the vis comica. The two best and 
.east exceptionable of his plays, are the ‘ Recruiting Officer,’ and the 
‘ Beaux Stratagem.’ I say, the least exceptionable; for, in general, 
the tendency of both Congreve and Farquhar’s plays is immoral. 
Throughout them all, the rake, the loose intrigue, and the life of 
licentiousness, are the objects continually held up to view; as if the 
assemblies ot a great and polished nation could be amused with none 
but vicious objects. The indelicacy of these writers, in the female 
characters which they introduce, is particularly remarkable. No- 
ihmg can be more awkward than their representations of a woman 
of virtue and honour. Indeed, there are hardly any female charac- 
ters m their plays except two : women of loose principles ; or, when 
a virtuous character is attempted to be drawn, women of affected 
manners. 

The censure which I have now passed upon these celebrated co¬ 
medians, is far from being overstrained or severe. Accustomed to 
Jie indelicacy of our own comedy, and amused with the wit and 
humour of it, its immorality too easily escapes our observation. 
But all foreigners, the French especially, who are accustomed to a 
better regulated, and more decent stage, speak of it with surprise 
and astonishment. Voltaire, who is, assuredly, none of the most 
austere moralists, plumes himself not a little upon the superior bien- 


Dr Johnson says of him, in his Life, that ‘ his personages are 
gladiators; every sentence is to ward, or to strike; the contest , 
intermitted ; his wit is a meteor, playing to and fro, with alterna 


kind of intellectual 
smartness is never 
corruscations.’ 




LEGT. XLVll.] 


English ComjSDV. 


543 


Seance, of the French theatre; and says, that the language of Eng¬ 
lish comedy is the language of debauchery, not of politeness. M. 
Moralt, in his letters upon the French and English nations, ascribes 
the corruption of manners in London to comedy, as its chief cause. 
Their comedy, he says, is like that of no other country; it is the 
school in which the youth of both sexes familiarize themselves with 
vice, which is never represented there as vice, but as mere gayety. 
As for comedies, says the ingenious M. Diderot, in his observations 
upon dramatic poetry, the English have none; they have in their 
place, satires, full, indeed, of gayety and force, but without morals, 
and without taste; sans moeurs, et saris gout. There is no wonder, 
therefore, that Lord Kaimes, in his Elements of Criticism, should 
have expressed himself upon this subject, of the indelicacy of Eng¬ 
lish comedy, in terms much stronger than any that I have used; 
concluding his invective against it in these words: ‘How odious 
ought those writers to be, who thus spread infection through their 
native country, employing the talents which they have received from 
their Maker most traitorously against himself, by endeavouring to 
corrupt and disfigure his creatures. If the comedies of Congreve 
did not rack him with remorse, in his last moments, he must have 
been lost to all sense of virtue.’ Vok II. 479. 

I am happy, however, to have it in my power to observe, that of 
late years, a sensible reformation has begun to take place in English 
comedy. We have, at last, become ashamed of making our public 
entertainments rest wholly upon profligate characters and scenes; 
and our later comedies, of any reputation, are much purified from 
the licentiousness of former times. If they have not the spirit, the 
ease, and the wit of Congreve and Farquhar, in which respect they 
must be confessed to be somewhat deficient; this praise, however, 
they justly merit, of being innocent and moral. 

For this reformation, we are, questionless, much indebted to the 
French theatre, which has not only been, at all times, more chaste 
and inoffensive than ours, but has, within these few years, produced a 
species of comedy, of a still graver turn than any that I have yet 
mentioned. This,which is called the serious, or tender comedy, and 
Was termed by its opposers, La Comedic Larmoyante , is not altoge¬ 
ther a modern invention. Several of Terence’s plays, as the Andria, 
in particular, partake of this character; and as we know that Terence 
copied Menander, we have sufficient reason to believe that his come¬ 
dies, also, were of the same kind. The nature of this composition 
does not by any means exclude gayety and ridicule; but it lays the 
chief stress upon tender and interesting situations; it aims at being 
sentimental, and touching the heart by means of the capital incidents; 
it makes our pleasure arise, not so much from the laughter which it 
excites, as from the tears of affection and joy which it draws forth. 

In English, Steele’s Conscious Lovers is a comedy which ap¬ 
proaches to this character, and it has always been favourably receiv¬ 
ed by the public. In French, there are several dramatic composi¬ 
tions of this kind, which possess considerable merit and reputation ; 


544 


ENGLISH COMEDY. 


[LECT. XLVII. 


e V r . 1 ? ? ’ and Prejuge a la Mode, of La Chaussee; 

1 i f? * de . FamiIle » of Diderot; the Cenie, of Mad Graffi°-nv • 
and the Namne, and L’Enfant Prodigue, of Voltaire? S 7 ’ 

When this form of comedy first appeared in France, it excited a 
great controversy among the critics. It was objected to as a dan¬ 
gerousand unjustifiable innovation in compositon. It is no’t tragedy 
; ,; , 0es n °‘ * nvolve us in sorrow. By what name then carfit be’ 
called, or what pretentions hath it to be comprehended under dra- 
matic writing? But this was trilling, in the most egregious manner 
with critical names and distinctions, as if these hacf in variably fixed’ 
the essence, and ascertained the limits of every sort of composition 

. 1 U16 11 IS n ®f essar y that all comedies should be formed on 

ne precise model. Some may be entirely light and gay • others 
may incline more to the serious; some may partake of both,’and all 

tainment P t r o 0P th 7 furnish a S re eable useful ente - 

tainment to the public, by suiting the different tastes of men * 

sion of S tl? nd t tender c “ mec| y has n <> title to claim to itself the posse’s- 
on of the stage, to the exclusion of ridicule and gayetv But\vhen 
It retains only its proper place, without usUrpin^'provLce of 

?vith? i e - r ’t Wh i en •“ 13 Camed 0n with resemblance to real life and 
without introducing romantic and unnatural situations it mav cer- 
tainly prove both an interesting and an agreeable snpripc ^ 
tic writing. If it become insipid andrS thkZ.t he“ 
ted to the fault of the author, Jot to the nlturf’of theT -T- PU ' 

which may admit much liveliness and vivadty. 1 C ° mp ° S,tl0n ’ 

ous n ifn raI l what t ver form comed y assumes, whether -ay or seri- 
ous It may always be esteemed a mark of society advancing in true 

mmiMS m 

II ne faut donner exclusion a aucun ffenrect V l tend,,s ' ement 1 v ajusqu’au X la.mes. 
meilleur ? je repondrois, celuiqui esUe mieux traits ^ deraandoi b ( l uel S enre est ie 

VOLTAIRE. 




( 544 a ) 


QUESTIONS. 


By what is comedy sufficiently dis- ] 
criminated from tragedy ? What form i 
the province of the latter; and what is i 
the sole instrument of the former? : 
What does comedy propose for its ob¬ 
ject ? Of the general idea of comedy, 
what is observed ; and why ? What is 
doing real service to the world; and 
what remark follows ? At the same 
time, what must be confessed; and 
why ? What, therefore, have licentious 
writers of the comic class, too often had 
in their power ? Of this fault, what is 
observed? How is this illustrated ? Of 
French, and of English comedy, what 
is here observed ? How are our disqui¬ 
sitions concerning comedy shortened? 
To both these forms of dramatic com¬ 
position, what is equally necessary? 
What was shown to be the scope of all 
these rules ; and why is this necessary? 
Why does this require a stricter obser¬ 
vance of the dramatic rules in comedy, 
than in tragedy; and what are the 
great foundation of the whole beauty 
of comedy? Of the subjects of tragedy, 
what is here observed ? Why does the 
reverse of this hold in comedy ? How is 
this illustrated? At what should the 
comic poet aim ? What is not his busi¬ 
ness; what should he give us; and why? 
Of Plautus and Terence, what is 
here remarked; but what must be re¬ 
membered ? In after times, what had 
the Romans? Into what two kinds may 
comedy be divided; and of them, re¬ 
spectively, what is observed? In which 
do the French most abound; and what 
instances are given ? In which do the 
English; and what remark follows ? 
In order to give this sort of composition 
its proper advantage, what is requisite ? 
How is this remark fully illustrated ? 
Of the action in comedy, what is re¬ 
marked ; and why ? Hence, what is a 
great fault ? What are now justly con¬ 
demned and laid aside; and why? 
What remark follows? In the manage¬ 
ment of characters, what is one of the 
most common faults of comic writers ? 
Wherever ridicule is concerned, what 
is very difficult? W'hat instance is 
mentioned; and of it, what is remarked ? 
Of the characters in comedy, what is 
observed; but what give too theatrical 
and affected an air to the piece? Why 
has this become too common a resource 
of comic writers ? How is this illustra¬ 
ted ? What instances are mentioned; 
and such production of characters by 


pairs, is like what ? As in every sort of 
composition, the perfection of art is to 
conceal art, how will a masterly writer 
give us his characters? What should 
the style of comedy be? Of the French 
rhyme, what is here observed; and what 
remark follows? What is one of the most 
difficult and one of the most impor¬ 
tant circumstances in writing comedy ? 
What is here observed of our English 
comedies; what ones are mentioned, 
and what is said of them? What remark 
follows; but how will its nature and spirit 
be better understood? With what re¬ 
mark does our author commence; and 
how is it probable comedy took its rise? 
What three stages of comedy do critics 
distinguish among the Greeks? In what 
did the ancient consist? Of this nature, 
are whose plays, and what is said of 
them ? What do they show? What arc 
several of Aristophanes’s plays? Of 
what are they full; what is the conse¬ 
quence ; and with what dothey abound? 
What are his characteristics? On many 
, occasions, what does he display ; but of 
: his performances, what remark follows? 
i Why do they seem to have been com- 
! posed for the mob? Of the treatment 

• given by this comedian to Socrates, 

■ what is observed ? What is remarked 
s of the chorus in his plays? Soon af- 

• ter the days of Aristophanes, what took 
[ place ? Why was the chorus also 
r banished ? Then what arose, and what 

- was it ? How was it conducted; and 
i what remark follows? To them suc- 
t ceeded what, and what did the stage 
; then become? Of Menander what is 
? observed ? What are the only remains 
i which we now have of the new come- 
? dy ? For what is Plautus distinguished ? 

1 As he wrote at an early period, what is 

- the consequence? How does he open 
t his plays; and what are sometimes con- 

- founded ? Of him, what is farther re- 
? marked ? Which of his plays have 

- been copied ; and by whom ? W T hat is 
3 said of Terence ? Of what is his style 

2 a model ? What is observed of his dia- 
t logue ; and what does he, beyond most 

3 writers, possess ? W hat is the general 
l character of his morality; and what 
3 remark follows? Hence, of what may 
1 he be considered the founder ? In what, 
r if in any thing, does he fail ? How is 
3 this illustrated ? In order to form a per- 

- feet comic author, what would be re- 
; quisite? 

/ When we enter on the view of mo- 





544 b 


QUESTIONS, 


(LECT. XLVIL 


dern comedy, what is one of’ the first 
objects which presents itself; and of it, 
what is observed ? Who are the chief 
Spanish comedians? Of Lopez de 
vega, what is remarked? Of these 
plays, what is the nature ? At the same 
wllat is generally admitted? 
yVhat apology does he himself give, 
lor the extreme irregularity of his com¬ 
positions ? W hat are the general cha- 
racters of the French comic theatre ? 
What writers of note has it produced ? 
HI Mohere, what is farther observed? 
What does Voltaire boldly pronounce 
lllia J th,s decision, what is obser- 
ved. 01 what is Moliere always the 
satirist- and what has he done ? What 
does he possess, and of what is he full ? 
ut his comedies in verse, what is ob¬ 
served ; and also of those in prose 
j? rema rked ? Together with 
those high qualities what defects has 
lie . Jew writers, however, have done 
what, so perfectly as he has ? Which are 
accounted his two capital productions ? 

** r°m the English theatre, what are we 
naturally led to expectand why ? What 
afford full scope to the display of sinmi- 
lanty of character, and to the indulgence 
of humour? Whatisthecasein France? 
.Hence, what follows ; but what is ex¬ 
tremely unfortunate ? How does it ap¬ 
pear that the first age of English come¬ 
dy was not infected by this spirit ? Of 
Shakspeare’s general character, par¬ 
ticularly, what is observed? What is 
ako said of Jonson ? What is remarked 
P 1 tlle Plays of Beaumont and Fletcher • 
b u t m £ eneraI , with what do they 
abound. How have these comedies be¬ 
come too obsolete to be very agreeable- 
and why ? W r ith what comedies is this 
rvc rii la V the case; and for what reason? 

Hf i lautus, what is here observed: and 
what is a high proof of Shakspeare’s 
genius . W hen did licentiousness seize 
on comedy for its province? Who then 
became the hero of every comedy; and 
upon what was the ridicule thrown ? 

At the end of the play, what common¬ 
ly took place ? But for what is he set 
up throughout it, and what is the conse¬ 
quence? What remark follows; and 
how long did this spirit prevail upon 
the comic stage ? What is said of Dry- 
den? As he sought to please only, 
what was the consequence? Since his 
time, who have been the writers of 
greatest note? Of Cibber, what is re¬ 
marked? Of the former, what is ob¬ 
served; and what is said of the latter? 
fo what is it liable; and why? But} 


how is this irregularity compensated ? 
At what are we surprised; and why? 
What is said of Sir John Vanburgh ? 
How is this illustrated? Of Congreve* 
what is observed; and what is his chief' 
fault? How is this illustrated? What 
kind of a writer is Farquhar ? Which 
are his two best plays ? Why does our 
author say the least exceptionable? 
How is this fully illustrated ? Of the 
censure which our author has now 
passed, what is observed; and why? 
How do foreigners speak of this ? How 
is this illustrated ? Of* what, therefore, 
is there no wonder, and what does he 
say ? To have what in his power, how¬ 
ever, is our author happy; and of what 
have we at last become ashamed ? 
What remark follows? For this refor¬ 
mation, to what are we indebted; and 
of it what is observed ? From what 
does it appear that this is not altoge¬ 
ther a modern invention ? Of the na¬ 
ture of this composition, what is obser¬ 
ved? What comedy have we in Eno- 
Iish that approaches this character* 
and what is said of it? In French' 
what are there; and name them? 
When this form of comedy first ap¬ 
peared in France, how was it received" 
Why was it objected to; and what 
was said of it ? But of this, what is ob¬ 
served ? Why should not all comedies 
be formed on one precise model ? Of 
serious and tender comedy, what is far¬ 
ther remarked? But when may it prove 
both an interesting and an aorec • 
able species of dramatic writing ?°If it 
become insipid and drawling, to what 
must this be imputed ? W r hat may al¬ 
ways be esteemed a mark of society 
advancing in true politeness? Repeat 
the closing remark. 


Comeck 


ANALYSIS. 


r 7* 

1. The nature of comedy. 

2. Rules respecting- it. 

3. The scene and subjects. 

4. The different kinds of comedv. 

5. 1 he characters. 

6. The style. 

7. The origin of comedy. 

8. Greek comedy. 

a. The different stages of it. 

9. Spanish comedy. 
a. Lopez de Vega. 

10. French comedy. 
a. Moliere. 

11. English comedy. 

a. Shakspeare — Beaumont- — Fletcher 

b. Dryden—Cibber—Vanburgh—Con - 

g-reve. 

c. A new species of edmedv 














I N D E A. 



Accents, thrown farther back from the ter¬ 
mination in the English than in any oth¬ 
er language, 99. Seldom more than 
one in English words, 368. Govern the 
measure of English verse, 430. 

Achilles, his character in the Iliad examin¬ 
ed, 485. 

Action, much used to assist language in an 
imperfect state, 63. And by ancient ora¬ 
tors and players, 64 Fundamental rule 
of propriety in, 374 Caution with res¬ 
pect to, 376. In epic poetry, the requi¬ 
sites ofj 474. 

Acts, the division of a play into five, and 
arbitrary limitation, 513. These pauses 
in representation ought to fall proper¬ 
ly, 514. 

Adam, his character in Milton’s Paradise 
Lost, 504. 

Addison, general view of his Essay on the 
Pleasures of the Imagination, 31. His 
invocation of the muse in his Campaign 
censured, 48. Blemishes in his style, 
115, 116,124. Ease and perspicuity of, 
127, 128,130. His beautiful description 
of light and colours, 155. Instance of 
his use of metaphor, 165. Improper 
use of similes, 184. His general cha¬ 
racter as a writer, 208. Character of 
his Spectator, 216. Critical examina¬ 
tion of some of those papers, ibid. Re¬ 
marks on his criticism of Tasso’s Amiu- 
ta, 441, note. His tragedy of Cato cri¬ 
tically examined, 511, 518, 522, 524. 

Adjectives, common to all languages, 88. 
How they came to be classed with nouns, 
ibid. 

Adverbs, their nature and use defined, 93. 
Importance of their position in a sen¬ 
tence illustrated, 115. 

JEneid, of Virgil, critical examination erf 
that poem, 489. The subject, ibid. Ac¬ 
tion, 490 Is deficient in characters, 
ibid. Distribution and management of 
the subject, ibid. Abounds with awful 
and tender scenes, 491. The descent 
of iEneas into hell, 492. The poem left 
unfinished by Virgil, 493. 

JEschines, a comparison between him and 
Demosthenes, 272. 

JEschylus, his character as a tragic writer, 
526. 

JEtna, remarks on Virgil’s description of 

4 K f 


that mountain, 46. And on that by Sir 
Richard Blackmore, ibid. 

Affectation, the disadvantages of, in public 
speaking, 376. 

Ages, four, peculiarly fruitful in learned 
men, pointed out, 388. 

Akenside, his comparison between sublimi¬ 
ty in natural and moral objects, 36, note. 
Instance of his happy allusion to figures, 
155. Characters of nis Pleasures of the 
Imagination, 449. 

Alphabet of letters, the consideration which 
led to the invention of, 76. Remote ob¬ 
scurity of this invention, ibid. The al¬ 
phabets of different nations derived from 
one common source, 77. 

Allegory, explained, 168. Anciently a fa¬ 
vourite method of conveying instruc¬ 
tions, 169. Allegorical personages im¬ 
proper agents in epic poetry, 172, 230. 

Ambiguity n style, from whence it pro¬ 
ceeds, 114. 

Amplification in speech, what, 191. Its 
principal instrument, ibid. 

American languages, the figurative style 
of, 67, 152. 

Anagnorisis } in ancient tragedy explained, 
515. 

Annals and history, the distinction be¬ 
tween, 408. 

Ancients and moderns distinguished, 38S. 
The merits of ancient writers are now 
finally ascertained, 389. The progress 
of knowledge favourable to the moderns, 
in forming a comparison between them, 
390. In philosophy and history, ibid. 
The efforts of genius greater among the 
ancients, 391. A mediocrity of genius 
now more diffused, 392. 

Antithesis, in language explained, 188. 
The too frequent use of, censured, ibid. 

Apostrophe, the nature of this figure ex¬ 
plained, 179. Find one from Cicero, 
290, note. 

Arabian Nights Entertainments, a charac¬ 
ter of those tales, 418. 

Arabian poetry, its character, 425. 

Arbuthnot, character of his epistolary writ¬ 
ing, 416. 

Architecture, sublimity in, whence it arises, 
35. The sources of beauty in, 54. 

Arguments, the proper management of in 
a discourse, 353. Analytic and synthe- 


546 


INDEX. 


tic methods', 354. Arrangement of, 355. 
Are not to be too much multiplied, 357. 
Ariosto, character of his Orlando Furioso, 
419, 498. 

Aristotle , his rules for dramatic and epic 
composition, whence derived, 27. His 
definition of a sentence, 112. His ex¬ 
tended sense of the term metaphor, 159. 
Chaiacter of his style, 197,201. His in¬ 
stitutions of rhetoric, 270, 386. His de¬ 
finition of tragedy considered, 507. His 
observations on tragic characters, 520. 
Aristophanes , character of his comedies, 
537. 

Arithmetical figures, universal characters, 
75. 

Ark of the covenant, choral service per¬ 
formed in the procession of bringing it 
back to Mount Zion, 461. 

Armstrong , character of his Art of Preserv¬ 
ing Health, 449. 

Art, works of, considered as a source of 
beauty, 54. 

Articles , in language.the use of, 81. Their 
importance in the English language il¬ 
lustrated, ibid. 

Articulation , clearness of, necessary in 
public speaking, 367. 

Associations, academical, recommended, 

384. Instructions for the regulation of, 

385. 

Athenians, ancient character of, 266. Elo¬ 
quence of, ibid. 

Alterbury, a more harmonious writer than 
Tillofson, 142. Critical examination of 
one of his sermons, 326. His exordium 
to a 30th of January sermon, 345. 

Attici and Asiani,parties at Rome, account 
of, 275. 

Authors, petty,why no friends to criticism, 
28. Why the most ancient afford the 
most striking instances of sublimity, 39. 
Must write with puritv to gain esteem, 
100 , 101 . 

B. 

Bacon, his observations on romances, 417. 
Ballads, have great influence over the man¬ 
ners of a people, 417. Were the first 
vehicles of historical knowledge and in¬ 
struction, 423. 

Bar, the eloquence of defined, 263 Why 
more confined than the pleadings before 
ancient tribunals, 283. Distinction be¬ 
tween the motives of pleading at the 
bar, and speaking in popular assemblies, 
299. In what respect ancient pleadings 
differ from those of modern times, ibid. 
Instructions for pleaders, 301, 350. 

Bards , ancient, the first founders of law 
and civilization, 424. 

Barrow, Dr. character of his style, 199. 

Character of his sermons, 325. 

Beaumont and Fletcher, their characters 
as dramatic poets, 540. 

Beauty, the emotion raised by, distinguish¬ 
ed from that of sublimity, 49. Is a term 


of vague application, 50. Colours, ibid. 
Figures, 51. Hogarth's line of beauty 
and line of grace consider ed, 61. The 
human countenance, 53. Works of art, 
ibid. The influence of fitness and de¬ 
sign in our ideas of beauty, 54 Beauty 
in literary composition, ibid. Novelty, 
55. Imitation, ibid. 

Bergerus,u German critic, writes a treatise 
on the sublimity of Caesar’s Commenta¬ 
ries, 38. 

Berkeley, bishop, character of his Dia¬ 
logues on the existence of Matter, 413. 
Biography, as the class of historical com¬ 
position, characterized, 409. 

Blackmore , Sir Richard, remarks on his 
description of Mount iEtna, 46. 
Blackwell, his character as a writer, 210. 
Boileau, his character as a didactic poet, 
451. 

Bolingbroke, instances of inaccuracy in his 
style, 121, 132. A beautiful climax 
from, 129 A beautiful metaphor from, 
159. His general character as a politi¬ 
cian and philosopher, 160 His general 
character as a writer, 211, 383. 

Bombast, in writing described, 48. 

Bossu, his definition of an epic poem, 470. 
His account of the composition of the 
Iliad, 471. 

Bossuet, M. instances of apostrophes to 
personified objects, in his funeral ora¬ 
tions, 179, note. Conclusion of his fu¬ 
neral oration on the Prince of Conde, 364. 
Britain, Great, not eminent for the study 
of Eloquence, 280. Compared with 
France in this respect, 281. 

Bruyere , his parallel between the elo 
quence of the pulpit and the bar, 313, 
note. 

Buchanan, his character as an historian, 
407. 

Building, how rendered sublime, 35. 

C. 

Cadmus, account of his alphabet, 76. 
Ccesar's commentaries, the style of charac¬ 
terized, 38. Is considered by Bergerus 
as a standard of sublime writing, ibid. 
Instance of his happy talent in historical 
painting, 404, note. His character of 
Terence the dramatist. 538. 

Cameons, critical examination of his Lusi- 
ad, 499. Confused machinery of. ibid. 
Campbell, Dr. his observations on English 
particles, 87, note. 

Carmel, Mount, metaphorical allusions to 
in Hebrew poetry, 464. 

Casimir, his character as a lyric poet, 446. 
Catastrophe, the proper conduct of, in dra¬ 
matic representations, 514. 

Caudine Forks, Livy’s happy description 
of the disgrace of the Roman army there, 
402. 

Celtic language, its antiquity and charac¬ 
ter, 95. The remains of it where to be 
found, ibid. Poetry, its character, 424. 


INDEX. 


547 


Characters, the dangers of labouring them 
too much in histor cal works, 405. The 
due requisites of, in tragcdy,ol9. 

Chinese language, character of, 64. And 
writing, 74. 

Chivalry, origin of, 418. 

Chorus , ancient, described, 609. Was the 
origin of tragedy, ibid. Inconveniences 
of, ibid. How it might properly be in 
troduced on the modern theatre, 503. 

Chronology, a due attention to, necessary 
to historical compositions, 397. 

Chrysostom, St. his oratorical character, 

280 . 

Cibber, his character as a dramatic writer, 
541. 

Cicero , his ideas of taste, 17, note. His dis¬ 
tinction between amare and diligere, 108. 
His observations on style, 113. Very 
attentive to the beauties of climax, 129. 
Is the most harmonious of all writers, 
135. His remarks on the power of mu¬ 
sic in orations, 137. His attention to 
harmony too visible, 141. Instance of 
his happy talent of adapting sound to 
sense, 143. His account of the origin 
of figurative language, 152. His obser¬ 
vations on suiting language to the sub¬ 
ject, 161 His rule for the use of meta¬ 
phor, 162. Instance of antithesis in, 187. 
The figure of speech called vision, 90. 
His caution against bestowing profuse 
ornaments on an oration, 193. His dis¬ 
tinction of style, 196 His own charac¬ 
ter as a writer, 197. His character of 
the Grecian orators, 268. His own cha¬ 
racter as an orator, 274. Compared 
with Demosthenes, 276. Masterly apos¬ 
trophe in, 290, no/e. His method of 
studying the judicial causes he under¬ 
took to plead, 301. State of the prose¬ 
cution of Avitus Cluentius, 305. Analysis 
of Cicero’s oration fot him, ibid. The ex¬ 
ordium of his second oval ion against Rul- 
lus, 343. His method of preparing intro¬ 
ductions to his orations,344 Excelled in 
narration, 351. His defence of Milo, ibid. 
357. Instance of the pathetic in his last 
oration against Verres, 362 Character of 
his treatise de Oratore, 389. Character 
of his dialogues,412. His epistles, 415. 

Clarendon, Lord, remarks on his style, 
120. His character as an historian, 407. 

Clarke , Dr. the style of his sermons cha¬ 
racterized, 324. 

Classics, ancient, their merits now finally 
settled beyond controversy, 388. The 
study of them recommended, 393. 

Climax, a great beauty in composition, 
129. In what it consists, 191. 

Cluentius, Avitus, history of his prosecu¬ 
tion, 305. His cause undertaken bv Ci¬ 
cero, ibid. Analysis of Cicero’s oration 
for him, ibid. 

Colours, considered as the foundation of 
beauty, 50. 


Comedy, how distinguished from tragedy, 
506, 533. Rules for the conduct of, ibid. 
The characters in, ought to be of our 
own country and our own time, 534. 
Two kinds of, ibid. Characters ought 
to be distinguished, 535. Style, 536. 
Rise and progress of comedy, ibid. Spa¬ 
nish comedy, 538. French comedy, 539. 
English comedy, 540. Licentiousness of, 
from the era of the restoration, 541. 
The restoration of, to what owing, 543. 
General remarks, 544. 

Comparison, distinguished from metaphor, 
158. The nature of this figure explain¬ 
ed. 181. 

Composition. See Literary composition. 

Congreve, the plot of his Mourning Bride 
embarrassed, 513. General character 
of his tragedy, 532. His comedies, 541. 

Conjugation of verbs, the varieties of, 90. 

Conviction, distinguished from persuasion, 
262. 

Copulatives, caution for the use of them, 
124. 

Corneille, his character as a tragic writer, 
528. 

Couplets, the first introduction of, into 
English poetry, 432. 

Cowley, instances of forced metaphors in 
his poems, 162. His use of similes cen¬ 
sured, 186. His general character as a 
poet, 446. 

Crcvier, his character of several eminent 
French writers, 382, note. 

Criticism, true and pedantic distinguished, 
13. Its object, 27. Its origin, 28. 
Why complained of by petty authors, 
ibid. May sometimes decide against the 
voice of the public, ibid. 

Cyphers , or arithmetical figures, a kind of 
universal character, 75. 

D. 

David, King, his magnificent institutions 
for the cultivation of sacred music and 
poetry, 460. His character as a poet, 
468. ' 

Debate in popular assemblies, the eloquence 
of, defined, 262. More particularly con¬ 
sidered, 285. Rules for, 287. 

Declamation, unsupported by sound rea¬ 
soning, false eloquence, 286. 

Declension -of nouns considered in various 
languages, 84. Whether cases or pre¬ 
positions were most anciently used, 85. 
Which of them are most useful and 
beautiful, 86. 

Deities, heathen, probable cause of the 
number of, 173. 

Deliberative orations what, 284. 

Delivery, the importance of, in public speak¬ 
ing, 292, 365. The four chief requisites 
in 366. The powers of voice, ibid. 
Articulation, 367. Pronunciation, 368. 
Emphasis, 369. Pauses, 370. Decla¬ 
matory delivery, 374. Action, ibid. Af¬ 
fectation, 376. 


INDEX. 


548 


Dcmctnus, Phaierus, the rhetorician, his 
character, 273. 

Demonstrative orations, what, 284. 
Demosthenes, his eloquence characterized, 
267. His expedients to surmount the 
disadvantages of hispersonand address, 
271. His opposition to Philip of Ma- 
cedon, ibid. His rivalship with iEs- 
* hines, 272. His style and action, ibid. 
Compared with Cicero, 276. Why his 
orations still please in perusal, 286. 
Extracts from his Philippics, 293. His 
definition ot the several points of orato¬ 
ry, 365. 

Description, the great test of a poet’s ima¬ 
gination, 452. Selection of circum¬ 
stances, ibid. Inanimate objects should 
be enlivened, 455. Choice of epithets, 
456. 5 

Description and imitation, the distinction 
between, 56. 

Dcs Brasses, his speculations on the ex¬ 
pressive power of radical letters and 
syllables, 61, note. 

Dialogue writing, the properties of, 411. 
Is very difficult to execute, 412. Mo¬ 
dern dialogues characterized, ibid. 
Didactic poetry^, its nature explained, 447. 

I he most celebrated productions in this 
class specified, ibid. Rules for composi¬ 
tions of this kind, 448. Proper embel¬ 
lishments of, ibid. 

Diderot , M. his character of English co¬ 
medy, 543. 

Dido, her character in the JEneid examin¬ 
ed, 490. 

Dionysius of Halicarnassus, his ideas of 
excellency in a sentence, 136 His dis¬ 
tinction of style, 196. Character of his 
treatise on Grecian oratory, 269. His 
comparison between Lysias and Iso¬ 
crates, 270, note. His criticism on Thu¬ 
cydides, 397. 

Discourse. See Oration. 

Dramatic poetry, the origin of, 425. Dis¬ 
tinguished by its objects, 505. See Tra¬ 
gedy and Comedy. 

Dry den, one ol the first reformers of our 
style, 200. Johnson’s character of his 
pi ose style, ibid, note. His character as 
a poet, 432. His character of Shak- 
speare, 530, note. His own character as 
a dramatic writer, 531, 541. 

Du Bos, Abbe, his remark on the theatri¬ 
cal compositions of the ancients, 137 
E. 

Education, liberal and essential requisite 
for eloquence, 380. 

Dgypt, the style of the hieroglyphical writ- 
mg of, 73. This an early stage of the 
art of writing, ibid. The alphabet pro¬ 
bably invented in that country, 76. 
Emphasis, its importance in public speak¬ 
ing, 369. Rule for, ibid. 

Eloquence, the several objects of considera¬ 
tion under this head, 261. Definition of 


the term, 262, 377. Fundamental max¬ 
ims of the art, 262. Defended against 
the objection of the abuse of the art of 
persuasion, ibid. Three kinds of elo¬ 
quence distinguished, 263. Oratory, the 
highest degree of, the offspring of pas¬ 
sion, 264 Requisites for eloquence, ibid. 
French eloquence, 265 Grecian, 266. 
Rise and character ot the rhetoricians of 
Greece, 268. Roman, 274. The attici 
and asiani, 2/6. Comparison between 
Cicero and Demosthenes, ibid. The 
schools of the declaimers, 279. The 
eloquence of the primitive fathers of the 
church, 280. General remarks on mod¬ 
ern eloquence, ibid. Parliament, 283. 
The bar and pulpit, ibid. The three kinds 
of orations distinguished by the ancients, 

284. These distinctions how far corres¬ 
pondent with those made at present, 

285. Eloquence of popular assemblies 
considered, ibid. The foundation of elo¬ 
quence, 286. The danger of trusting to 
prepared speeches at public meetings, 
287. Necessary premeditation pointed 
out, ibid. Method, 288. Style and ex¬ 
pression, ibid. Impetuosity, 289. At¬ 
tention to decorums, 290. Delivery 
292, 366. Summary , 292. See Cicero 
Demosthenes, Oration, and Pulpit. 

English language, the arrangement of 
words in, more refined than that of an¬ 
cient languages, 70. But more limited 
tbid. Ihe principles of general grammar 
seldom applied to it, 78. The important 
use of articles in, 81. All substantive 
nouns of inanimate objects of the neuter- 
gender, 82. 4 he place of declension in, 

supplied by prepositions, 85. The va¬ 
rious tenses of English verbs, 91. His¬ 
torical view of the English language, 
95. The Celtic the primitive language oi 
Britain, ibid. The Teutonic tongue the 
basis of our present speech, 96 Its ir¬ 
regularities accounted for, ibid. Its 
copiousness, ibid. Compared with the 
French language, 97. Its style charac¬ 
terized, ibid. Its flexibility, 98 Is more 
harmonious than is generally allowed 
ibid. Is rather strong than graceful. 99 ! 
Accent thrown farther back in English 
words, than in those of any other lan¬ 
guage, ibid. General properties of the 
English tongue, ibid Whv so loosely 
and inaccurately written, 100 The 
fundamental rules of syntax, common 
both to the English and Latin, ibid. 

No author can gain esteem if he does 
not write with purity. It>, Grammati- 
cal authors recommended, ibid, note. 

Epic poetry, the standards of, 393 Is the 
highest effort of poetical genius, 470. 
Ihe characters of, obscured by critics, 
ibid. Examination of Bossu’s account 
of the formation of the Iliad, ibid. Epic 
poetry considered as to its moral tenden- 


INDEX. 


549 


cy, 472. Predominant character of, 473. 
Action of, ibid. Episodes, 474. The 
subject should be of remote date, 475. 
Modern history more proper for dramatic 
writing than for epic poetry, ibid. The 
story must be interesting and skilfully 
managed, 476 Hie intrigue, 477. The 
question considered whether it ought 
to end successfully, ibid. Duration for 
the action, ibid. ^Characters of the 
personages, 478 The principal hero, 
ibid. The machinery, 479 Narration, 
480. Loose observations, 481. 

Episode , defined with reference to epic 
poetry, 474. Rules for conduct of, 475. 

Epistolary writing, general remarks on, 
413. 

Eve, her character in Milton’s Paradise 
Lost, 504 

Euripides, instance of his excellence in the 
pathetic, 524, note. His character as a 
tragic writer, 527. 

Exclamations, the proper use of, 189. 
Mode of their operation, ibid. Rule for 
the employment of, 190. 

Exercise improves both bodily and mental 
powers, 18. 

Exordium of a discourse, the objects of, 
342. Rules for the composition of, 343. 

Explication of the subject of a sermon, ob¬ 
servation on, 352. 

F. 

Face, human, the beauty of, complex, 53. 

Farquhar , his character as a dramatic writ¬ 
er, 542. 

Fathers, Latin, character of their style of 
eloquence, 279. 

Fenelon, archbishop, his parallel between 
Demosthenes and Cicero, 277. His re¬ 
marks on the composition of a sermon, 
347. Critical examination of his Ad¬ 
ventures of Telemachus, 500. 

Fielding, a character of his novels, 420. 

Figurative style of language defined, 146. 
Is not a scholastic invention, but a natu¬ 
ral effusion of imagination, 147. How 
described by rhetoricians, 148. Will not 
render a cold or empty composition in¬ 
teresting, 149. The pathetic and sub¬ 
lime reject figures of speech, ibid Ori¬ 
gin of, 150. How they contribute to 
the beauty of style, 153. Illustrative des¬ 
cription, 154 Heightened emotion, ibid. 
The rhetorical names and classes of fig¬ 
ures frivolous, 156. The beauties of 
composition not dependant on tropes and 
figures, 192. Figures must always rise 
naturally from the subject, 193. Are not 
to be profusely used, 194. The talent 
of using derived from nature, and not to 
be created, ibid. If improperly intro¬ 
duced, are a deformity, ibid, note. See 
Metaphor. 

Figure , considered as a source of beauty, 
51. 

Figures of speech, the origin of, 66. 


Figures of thought among rhetoricians, de¬ 
fined, 148. 

Fitness and design, considered as sources 
of beauty, 54. 

Fleece , a poem, harmonious passage from, 
145 

Fontenelle , character of his dialogues, 413. 

French, Noiman, when introduced into 
England, 95 

French writers, general remarks on their 
style, 198 Eloquence,265,280 French 
and English oratory compared, 282. 

Frigidity in writing characterized, 48. 

G. 

Gay, a character of his pastorals, 441. 

Gender of nouns, foundation of, 82. 

Genius distinguished from taste, 29. Its 
import, ibid. Includes taste, 30. The 
pleasures of the imagination, a striking 
testimony of Divine benevolence, 31. 
True, is nursed by liberty, 265. In art6 
and wt iting, why displayed more in one 
age than another, 291. Was more vi¬ 
gorous in the ancients than in the mod¬ 
erns, 391. A general mediocrity of, 
how diffused, ibid. 

Gesner , a character of his Idyls, 440. 

Gestures in public oratory. See Action. 

Gil Bias of Le Sage, character of that no¬ 
vel, 419. 

Girard, abbe, character of his Synonymes 
Francois, 111. 

Gordon, instances of his unnatural disposi¬ 
tion of words, 56. 

Gorgius of Leontium, the rhetorician, his 
character, 268. 

Gothic poetry, its character, 424. 

Gracchus, C. his declamations regulated by 
musical rules, 137. 

Grammar , general, the principles of, titles 
attended to by writers, 78. The divi¬ 
sion of the several parts of speech, 79. 
Nouns substantive, 80. Articles, 81. 
Number, gender, and case of nouns, 82. 
Prepositions, 85. Pronouns, 88. Ad¬ 
jectives, ibid. Verbs, 90. Verbs the 
most artificial complex of all the parts 
of speech, 92. Adverbs, 93 Prepo¬ 
sitions and conjunctions, ibid. Impor¬ 
tance of the studv of grammar, 94. 

Grandeur See Sublimity. 

Gieece, short account of the ancient repub¬ 
lics of, 266. Eloquence carefully stu¬ 
died there, 287. Characters of the dis¬ 
tinguished orators of, ibid. Rise and 
character of the rhetoricians, 268. 

Greek , a musical language, 64, 136. Its 
flexibility, 98. Writers distinguished 
for simplicity, 207. 

Guarini, character of his Pastor Fido, 441. 

Guicciardini , his character as an historian, 
406. 

H. 

Habakkuk, sublime representation of the 
Deity in, 40. 

Harris, explanatory simile cited from, 188. 


550 


INDEX. 


Hebrew poetry, in what points of view 
to be considered, 4?>9 The ancient pro¬ 
nunciation of lost, 460 Music and poe¬ 
try, early cultivated among the He¬ 
brews, ibid Construction of Hebrew 
poetry, ibid. Is distinguished by a con¬ 
cise strong figurative expression, 463. 
The metaphors employed in, suggested 
by the climate and nature of the land 
of Judea, 463, 465 Bold and sublime 
instances of personification in, 466. 
Book of proverbs, 467. Lamentations 
of Jeremiah, ibid. Book of Job, 468. 
Helen, her character in the Iliad examin- 
ned, 484. 

Hell., the various descents into, given bv 
epic poets, show the gradual improve¬ 
ment of actions concerning a future 
state, 501. 

Henria.de. See Voltaire. 

Herodotus, his character as an historian, 
397. 

Heroism, sublime instances of pointed out, 
35. ., , 

Harvey , character of his style, 204. 
Hieroglyphics, the second stage of writing, 
73 Of Egypt, ibid. 

Historians, modern, their advantages over 
the ancient, 390. Ancient models of, 
393. Ihe objects of their duty, 394. 
Character of Polybius, 396. Of Thucy¬ 
dides, ibid. Of Herodotus and Thuanus, 
397. Primary qualities necessary in an 
historian, 398 Character of Livy and 
Sallust, 399. Of Tacitus, ibid. Instruc¬ 
tions and cautions to historians, 400. 
How to preserve the dignity of narra¬ 
tion, 401. How to render it interesting, 
402. Danger of refining too much in 
drawing characteis, 404. Character of 
the Italian historians, 406. The French 
and English, 407. 

History , the propel object and end of, 394. 
True, the characters of, ibid. The dif¬ 
ferent classes of, 395. General history, 
the proper conduct of, ibid. The ne¬ 
cessary qualities of historical narration, 
401. The propriety of introducing ora¬ 
tions in history, examined, 405. And 
characters, ibid. The Italians the best 
modern historians, 406 See Annals, 
Biography, Memoirs, and Novels. 

Hogarth, his analysis of beauty consider¬ 
ed, 51. 

Homer, not acquainted with poetry as a 
systematic art, 27. Did not possess a 
refined taste, 30. Instances of sublimi¬ 
ty in, 41. Is remarkable for the use of 
personification, 175. Story of the Iliad, 
482. Remarks on, ibid. His inven¬ 
tion and judgment in the conduct of 
the poem, 483. 4dvantages and de¬ 
fects arising from his narrative speeches, 
ibid. His character, 484. His machi¬ 
nery, 485. His style, 486. His skill 
in narrative description, 487. His simi¬ 


les, ibid. General character of his 
Odyssey, 488. Defects of (he Odyssey, 
ibid. Compared with Virgil, 489. 
Hooker, a specimen of his style, 200. 
Horace, figurative passages cited from, 153. 
Instance of mixed metaphor in, 165. 
Crowded metaphors, 166. His charac¬ 
ter as a poet, 393, 445. W as the refor¬ 
mer of satire, 450. 

Humour , why the English possess their 
quality more eminently than other na¬ 
tions, 540. 

Hyperbole , an explanation of that figure, 
169. Cautions for the use of, 170. Two 
kinds of, ibid. 

I. 

Ideas, abstract, entered into the first for¬ 
mation of language, 80 
Jeremiah, his poetical character, 468. See 
Lamentations. 

Iliad, story of, 482. Remarks on, ibid. 

I he principal characters, 484. Machi¬ 
nery of, 485. 

Imagination, the pleasures of, as specified 
hy Mr. Addison, 31. The powers of. 
to enlarge the sphere of our pieasuie, a 
striking instance of divine benevolence, 
ibid, is the source of figurative lan¬ 
guage 147, 151. 

Imitation, considered as a source of plea¬ 
sure to taste, 55 And description dis¬ 
tinguished, 57. 

Inferences from a -sermon, the proper man¬ 
agement of, 354. 

Infinity of space, numbers, or duration af¬ 
fect the mind with sublime ideas, 32. 
Interjections, the first elements of speech 
60. } 

Interrogation, instances of the happy use 
and effect of, 189 Mode of their ope- 
tafion, ibid Ride for using, 190. 

Job, exemplification of the sublimity of 
obscurity in the book of, 34. Remarks 
on the style of, 460 The subject and 
poetry of, 468 Fine passage from, 
469. ? 

Johnson, his character of Drvden’s prose 
style, 200, note. His remarks on the 
style of Swift, 250, note. His character 
ot Thompson, 454, note. His character of 
Drvden’s comedies, 541, note. His char¬ 
acter of Congreve, 542. 

Jonson. Ben, his character as a dramatic 
poet, 540. 

Isceus, the rhetorician, his character, 270. 
Isaiah, sublime representation of the Deity 
*"» 40 -. His description of the fall of the 
Assyrian empire. 180. His metaphors 
suited to the climate of Judea, 463, 464. 

His character as a poet, 468. 

Isocrates, the rhetorician, his character, 
269. 

Judea, remarks on the climate and natural 
circumstances of that country, 453. 
Judicial orations, what, 284. 

Juvenal , a character of his satires, 450, 


INDEX. 


551 


K. 

Kaimes^Lovd, his severe censures of English 
comedies, 543. 

Knight errantry, foundation of the roman¬ 
ces concerning, 418. 

Knowledge an essential requisite for elo¬ 
quence, 380. The progress of, in favour 
oi the moderns, upon a comparison with 
the ancients, 391. The acquisition of, 
difficult in former ages, 392. 

L. 

Lamentations ol Jeremiah, the most perfect 
elegiac composition in the sacred scrip¬ 
tures, 467. 

Landscape, considered as an assemblage of 
beautiful objects, 418 

Language, the improvement of, studied 
even by rude nations, 9. In what the 
true improvement of language consists, 
10 . Importance of the study of language 
ibid. Defined, 59. The present refine¬ 
ments of. ibid. Origin and progress of, 
60 The first elements of, ibid. Ana¬ 
logy between words and things, 61. The 
great assistance afforded by gestures, 
63. The Chinese language, 64. The 
Greek and Roman languages, ibid. Ac¬ 
tion much used by ancient orators, 64. 
Roman pantomimes, 65. Great differ¬ 
ence between ancient and modern pro¬ 
nunciation, ibid. Figures of speech the 
origin of, 66. Figurative style of Ame¬ 
rican languages, 67. Cause of the de¬ 
cline of figurative language, ibid. The 
natural and original arrangement of 
words in speech, 68. The arrangement 
of words in modern languages, different 
from that of the ancients, 70. An exem¬ 
plification, ibid. Summary of the fore¬ 
going observations, 72 Its wonderful 
powers, 155. All language strongly 
tinctured with metaphor, 158 In mo¬ 
dern productions, often better than the 
subjects of them, 260. Written and oral, 
distinction between, 383. See Grammar, 
Style, and Writing. 

Latin language, the pronunciation of, 
musical and gesticulating, 64, 136. The 
natural arrangement of words in, 69. 
The want of articles a defect in, 81. 
Remarks on words deemed synonymous 
in, 108. 

Learning, an essential requisite for elo¬ 
quence, 380. 

Lebanon, metaphorical allusions to, in He¬ 
brew poetry, 464. 

Lee, extravagant hyperbole quoted from, 
171. His chaiacter as a tragic poet, 
631. 

Liberty , the nurse of true genius, 265. 

Literary composition, importance of the 
study of language, preparatory to, 11. 
The beauties of, indefinite, 54. To what 
class the pleasures received from elo¬ 
quence, poetry and fine writing, are to 


be referred, 56. The beauties of, not 
dependant on tropes and figures, 192. 
The different kinds of distinguished, 394. 
See History , Poetry, Ike 

Livy, his character as an historian, 399, 
402. 

Locke, general character of his style, 202. 
The style of his Treatise on Human Un¬ 
derstanding, compared with the writings 
of Lord Shaftesbury, 411. 

Longinus, strictures on his Treatise on the 
Sublime, 38. His account of the conse¬ 
quences of liberty, 265 Hissententious 
opinion of Homer’s Odyssey, 488. 

Lopez dela Vega, his character as a drama¬ 
tic poet, 538. 

Love , too much importance and frequency 
allowed to, on the modern stage, 521. 

Lowlh's English Grammar recommended, 
101, note, 124, note. His character of the 
prophet Ezekiel, 468. 

Lucan, instances of his destroying a sub¬ 
lime expression of Caesar, by amplifica¬ 
tion, 43. Extravagant hyperbole from, 
171. Critical examination of his Pliar- 
salia, 493. The subject, ibid. Charac¬ 
ters and conduct of the story, 494. 

Lucian, character of his dialogues, 413. 

Lucretius , his sublime representation of the 
dominion of superstition over mankind, 
34, note. The most admired passages in 
his Treatise De Rerum JYatura, 449. 

Lusiad. See Carmens. 

Lyric poetry, the peculiar character of, 
443 Foui classes of odes, 444. Char¬ 
acters of the most eminent lyric poets, 
445. 

Lysias , the rhetorician, his character, 270. 
M. 

Machiavel, his character as an histoiian, 
406 

Machinery , the great use of in epic poetry, 
478. Cautions for the use of, 479, 485. 

Mackenzie, Sir George, instance of regular 
climax in his proceedings, 191. 

Man. by nature both a poet and musician, 
423. 

Marivaux, a character of his novels, 420. 

Marmontel, his comparative lemari s on 
French, English, and Italian p etry, 
431, note. 

Marsy, Fr. his contrast between the cha¬ 
racters of Corneille and Racine, 629, 

note. 

Massillon, extracts from a celebrated ser¬ 
mon of his, 323, note. Encomium on, 
by Louis XIV. 326. His artful divi¬ 
sion of a text, 350. 

Memoirs, their class in historical composi¬ 
tion assigned, 408. Why the French 
are fond of this kind of writing, ibid. 

Melalepsis, in figurative language explain¬ 
ed, 156. 

Metaphor, in figurative style, explained, 
157, 158. All language stxongly tinct 


552 


INDEX, 


ured with, 159. Approaches the nearest 
to painting of all the figures of speech, 
ibid. Rules to be observed in the con¬ 
duct of, 160. See Allegory. 

Metastasio , his character as a dramatic 
writer, 529. 

Metonomy , in figurative style, explained, 
159. 

Mexico , historical pictures the records of 
that empire, 73. 

Milo , narrative of the encounter between 
him and Clodius, by Cicero, 351. 

Milton , instances of sublimity in, 33, 44, 
46. Of harmony, 135, 144. Hyperboli¬ 
cal sentiments of Satan in, 170. Striking 
instances of personification in, 175, 176. 
Excellence of his descriptive poetry ,454. 
Who the proper hero of his Paradise 
Lost, 478. Critical examination of this 
poem. 503. His sublimity characterized, 
505. His language and versification, 
ibid. 

Moderns. See Ancients. 

Moliere, his character as a dramatic poet, 
539. 

Monboddo,Lord , his observations on Eng¬ 
lish and Latin verse, 429, note. 

Monotony in language, often the result of 
too great attention to musical arrange¬ 
ment, 141. 

Montague, Lady Mary Wortley, a charac¬ 
ter of her epistolary style, 417. 
Montesquieu , character of his style, 154. 
Monumental inscriptions, the numbers suit¬ 
ed to the style, 145. 

Moralt, M his severe censure of English 
comedy, 543. 

More, Dr. Henry, character of his divine 
dialogues, 413 

Motion, considered as a source of beauty, 
52. 

Motte, M. de la, his observations on lyric 
poetry, 445, note. Remarks on his cri¬ 
ticism on Homer, 488. 

Music, its influence on the passions, 423. 
Its union with poetry, ibid. Their se¬ 
paration injurious to each. 427. 

N. 

Naivet6, import of that French term, 
207 

Narration, an important point in pleadings 
at the bar, 350. 

Night scenes commonly sublime, 33. 

Nomic melody of the Athenians, what, 
137 

Novels, a species of writing,not so insignifi¬ 
cant as may be imagined, 416. Might 
be employed for very useful purposes, 
417. Rise and progress of fictitious 
history, 418. Characters of the most 
celebrated romances and novels, 419. 
Novelty, considered as a source of beauty, 
55. 

Nouns , substantive, the foundation of all 
grammar, 79. Number, gender, and 

eases of, 83. 


O. 

Obscurity , not unfavourable to sublimity, 
34. Of style, owing to indistinct concep¬ 
tions, 102. 

Ode, the nature of defined, 443. Four 
distinctions of, 444. Obscurity and ir¬ 
regularity, the great faults in, ibid. 
Odyssey , general character of, 488. De¬ 
fects of, ibid. 

GEdipus, an improper character for the 
stage, 521. 

Orators, ancient, declaimed in recitative, 64. 
Orations, the three kinds of, distinguished 
by the ancients, 284. The present dis¬ 
tinctions of, 285. Those in popular 
assemblies considered, ibid. Prepared 
speeches not to be trusted to, 287. Ne¬ 
cessary degrees of premeditation, ibid. 
Method, 288. Style and expression, 
ib"d Impetuosity, 289. Attention to 
decorums, 290. Delivery, 292, 365. 
The several parts of a regular oration, 
341. Introduction, 342 Introduction 
to replies, 347. Introduction to sermons, 
ibid. Division of a discourse, 348. 
Rules for dividing it, 349. Explication, 
350. The argumentative part, 353. The 
pathetic, 358. The peroration, 364. Vir¬ 
tue necessary to the perfection of elo¬ 
quence, 378. Description of a true ora¬ 
tor, 380. Qualifications for, ibid. The 
best ancient writers on oratory, 385, 
393. The use made of orations by the 
ancient historians, 405. See Eloquence. 
Oriental poetry, more characteristical of 
an age than of a country, 424. Style 
of scripture language, 67. 

Orlando Furioso. See Ariosto. 

Ossian , instances of sublimity in his works, 
42 Correct metaphors, 164. Confu¬ 
sed mixture of metaphorical and plain 
language in, ibid. Fine apostrophe, 180. 
Delicate simile, 183. Lively descrip¬ 
tions in, ibid. 

Otway, his character as a tragic poet, 513. 

P. 

Pantomime, an entertainment of Roman 
origin, 65. 

Parables, Eastern, their general vehicle for 
the conveyance of truth, 465. 

Paradise Lost, critical review of that 
poem, 503. The characters in, 504. 
Sublimity of, 505. Language and ver¬ 
sification, ibid. 

Parenthesis, cautions for the use of them 
121 

Paris, his character in the Iliad, exam¬ 
ined, 485. 

Parliament of Great-Britain, why elo¬ 
quence has never been so powerful an 
instrument in, as in the ancient popular 
assemblies of Greece and Rome, 283. 
Parnel, his character as a descriptive poet, 
454 F ’ 

Particles , cautions for the useof them, 124. 
Ought never to close sentences, 130, 


INDEX. 


553 


Passion, the source of oratory, 264. 

Passions , when and how to be addressed 
by orators, 358. The orator must feel 
emotions before he can communicate 
them to others, 360. The language of, 
361. Poets address themselves to the 
passions, 423. 

Pastoral poetry, inquiry into its origin, 433. 
A threefold view of pastoral life, 434. 
Rules for pastoral writing, ibid. Its 
scenery, 435. Characters, 437. Sub¬ 
jects, 438. Comparative merit of an¬ 
cient pastoral writers, 439. And of 
moderns, 440. 

Pathetic, the proper management of, in a 
discourse, 358. Fine instance of from 
Cicero, 362. 

Pdusts, the due use of, in public speaking, 
370. In poetry, 371,430. 

Pericles, the first who brought eloquence 
to any degree of perfection, 368. His 
general character, ibid. 

Period. See Sentence. 

Personification, the peculiar advantages of 
the English language in, 83. Limitations 
of gender in, 84. Objections against 
the practice of, answered, 172. The dis¬ 
position to animate the objects about us, 
natural to mankind, 173. This dispo¬ 
sition may account for the number of 
heathen divinities, ibid. Three degrees 
of this figure, 174. Rules for the man¬ 
agement of the highest degree of, 177. 
Cautions for the use of in prose compo¬ 
sitions, 178. See Apostrophe. 

Perseus , a character of his satires, 450. 

Perspicuity, essential to a good style, 102. 
Not merely a negative virtue, 103. The 
three qualities of, ibid. 

Persuasion , distinguished from conviction, 
262. Objection brought from the abuse 
of this art, answered, ibid. Rules for, 
286. 

Peruvians, their method of transmitting 
their thoughts to each other, 74. 

Petronius Arbiter, his address to the de¬ 
claimed of his time, 279. 

Pharsalia. See Lucan. 

Pherecydes of Sycros, the first prose wri¬ 
ter, 68. 

Philips , character of his pastorals, 441. 

Philosophers, modern, their superiority 
over the ancient, unquestionable, 390. 

Philosophy, the proper style of writing 
adapted to, 410. Proper embellishment 
for, ibid. 

Pictures, the first essay toward writing, 72. 

Pindar , his character as a lyric poet, 445. 

Pitcairn, Dr. extravagant hyperbole cited 
from, 172. 

Plato, character of his dialogues, 412. 

Plautus, his character as a dramatic poet, 
538. 

Pleaders at the bar, instruction to, 301, 
350. 

Pliny's letters, general character of, 415. 


Plutarch, his character as a biographer, 
409. 

Poetry, in what sense descriptive, and in 
what imitative, 57. Is more ancient 
than prose, 67. Source of the pleasure 
we receive from the figurative style of, 
176. Test of the merit of, 185. Whence 
the difficulty of reading poetry arises, 
371. Compared with oratory, 377. 
Epic, the standards of, 393. Definition 
of poetry, 421. Is addressed to the ima¬ 
gination and the passions, 422. Its ori¬ 
gin, ibid. In what sense older than 
prose, 422. Its union with music, 423. 
Ancient history and instructions first 
conveyed in poetry, 424. Oriental, 
more characteristical of an age than of 
a country, ibid. Gothic, Celtic, and 
Grecian, 425. Origin of the different 
kinds of, 426. Was more vigorous in 
its first rude essays than under refine¬ 
ment, 427 Was injured by the separa¬ 
tion of music from it, ibid. Metrical 
feet, invention of, 428. These measures 
not applicable to English poetry, 429. 
English heroic verse, the structure of, 
430 French poetry, ibid. Rhyme and 
blank verse compared, 431. Progress 
of English versification, 432. Pastorals, 
433. Lyrics, 443. Didactic poetry, 
447. Descriptive poetry, 452. Hebrew 
poetry, 459. Epic poetry, 470. Poetic 
characters, two kinds of, 478. Dramat¬ 
ic poetry, 507. 

cannot correct a confused sen¬ 
tence, 121. 

Politics, the science of, why ill understood 
among the ancients, 398. 

Polybius , his character as an historian, 
396. 

Pope , criticism on a. passage in his Homer, 
43. Prose specimen from, consisting of 
short sentences, 113 Other specimens 
of his style, 127, 132. Confused mix¬ 
tures of metaphorical and plain lan¬ 
guage in, 163. Mixed metaphor in, 166. 
Confused personification, 178. Instance 
of his fondness for antithesis, 188. 
Character of his epistolary writings, 416. 
Criticism on, ibid. Construction of his 
verse, 430. Peculiar character of his 
versification, 432. His pastorals, 438, 
440. His ethic epistles, 451. The merit 
of his various poems examined, ibid. 
Character of his translation of Homer, 
486. 

Precision in language, in what it consists, 
104. The importance of, ibid, 114. Re¬ 
quisite to, 111. 

Prepositions, whether more ancient than 
the declension of nouns by cases, 85. 
Whether more useful and beautiful, 86. 
Dr. Campbell’s observations on, 87. 
Their great use in speech, 94. 

Prior, allegory cited from, 168. 

Pronouns , their use, varieties, and cases. 


Pointing 


i L 


70 


554 


INDEX. 


87. Relative instances illustrating- the 
importance of their proper position in a 
sentence, 116. 

Pronunciation, distinctness of, necessary- 
in public speaking-, 367. Tones of, 372. 
Proverbs, book of, a didactic poem, 497. 
Psalm xviii. sublime representation of the 
Deity in, 39. lxxxth, a fine allegory 
from, 168. Remarks on the poetic con¬ 
struction of the Psalms, 461, 464. 
Pulpit, eloquence of the, defined, 263. 
English and French sermons compared, 
281. The practice of reading sermons 
in England,disadvantageous to oratory, 
283. The art of persuasion resigned to 
the Puritans, ibid. Advantages and dis¬ 
advantages of pulpit eloquence, 312. 
Rules for preaching, 313. The chief 
characteristics of pulpit eloquence, 316 
Whether it is best to read sermons or 
deliver them extempore, 321. Pronun¬ 
ciation, 322. Remarks on French ser¬ 
mons, ibid. Cause of the drv argumen¬ 
tative style of English sermons, 324. 
General observations, 325. 

Pisistratus, the first who cultivated the arts 
of speech, 267. 

„ • Q 
Qumtilian, his ideas of taste, 17, note. His 

account of the ancient division of the 
several parts of speech, 79, note. His 
remarks on the importance of the study 
of grammar, 94. On perspicuity of 
style, 102, 108. On climax, 129. On 
the structure of sentences, 131. Which 
ought not to offend the ear, 134, 140. 
His caution against too great an atten¬ 
tion to harmony, 141. His caution 
'against mixed metaphor, 164. His fine 
apostrophe on the death of his son, 180. 
His rule for the use of similes, 186. His 
direction for the use of figures of style, 
193. Hi s distinction of style, 196, 203. 

His instructions for good writing, 213. 

His character of Cicero’s oratory, 204. 

His instructions to public speakers for 
preserving decorum, 291. His instruc¬ 
tions to judicial pleaders, 301. His ob¬ 
servations on exordiums to replies in de¬ 
bate, 347. On the proper division of an 
oration, 348. His mode of addtessing 
the passions, 357. His lively represen- 
tations of the effects of depravity, 379. 

386^ ^ eSt BnC * ent wr * ter on oratory, 

R 

Racine, his character as a tragic poet, 528. 

Ramsay , Allan, character of his Gentle 
Shepherd, 442. 

Rapin, P. remarks on his parallels be- 
tween Greek and Roman writers, 277. 

Retz, Cardinal de, character of his Me¬ 
moirs, 408. 

Rhetoricians, Grecian, rise and character 
of, 268. 

Rhyme, in English verse, unfavourable to 


sublimity, 43. And blank verse com¬ 
pared, 431. The former, why improper 
in the Greek and Latin languages, 432. 
The first introduction of couplets in 
English poetry, ibid. 

Richardson, a character of his novels, 420. 
Ridicule, an instrument often misapplied, 
533. 

Robinson Crusoe, a chai acter of that no¬ 
vel, 420. 

Romance, derivation of the term, 418. See 
Novels. 

Romans, derived their learning from 
Greece, 273. Comparison between them 
and the Greeks, 274. Historical view 
of their eloquence, ibid. Oratorical 
character of Cicero, 274. Era of the 
decline of eloquence among, 278. 
Rosseau, Jean Baptiste, his character as a 
lyric poet, 446. 

Rowe, his character as a tragic poet, 532. 

S. 

Sallust, his character as an historian, 399. 
Sanazarius, his piscatory .eclogues, 440. 
Satan, examination of his character in 
Milton’s Paradise Lost, 504. 

Satire, poetical, general remarks on the 
style of, 449. 

Saxon language, how established in Eng¬ 
land, 95. 

Scenes, dramatic, what, and the proper 
conduct of, 516. 

Scriptures, sacred, the figurative style of, 
remarked, 67. The translators of, hap¬ 
py in suiting their numbers to the sub¬ 
ject, 143. Fine apostrophe in, 180. 
Presents us with the mostancient monu¬ 
ments of poetry extant, 459. The di¬ 
versity of style in the several books of, 
ibid. The Psalms of David, 460. No 
other writings abound with such bold 
and animated figures, 463. Parables 

466. Bold and sublime instances of per¬ 
sonification in, ibid. Book of Proverbs 

467. Lamentations of Jeremiah, ibid. ’ 
Scuderi, Madam, her romances, 419. 

Seneca, his frequent antithesis censured. 

187. Character of his general style, 

198. His epistolary writings, 411. ” 
Sentence, in language, definition of, 112. 
Distinguished into long and short, 113. 

A variety in,to be studied, ibid. The 
properties essential to a perfect sentence, 

114. A principal rule for arranging 
the members of, 115. Position of ad¬ 
verbs, ibid. And relative pronouns, 

116. Unity of a sentence, rules for pre¬ 
serving, 119. Pointing, 121. Paren¬ 
thesis, ibid. Should always be brought 
to a perfect close, 122. Strength, 123. 
Should be cleared of redundancies, ibid. 

Due attention to particles recommend¬ 
ed, 124. The omission of particles 
sometimes connects objects closer to¬ 
gether, 126. Directions for placing the 
important words, ibid. Climax, 129 


INDEX. 


5 55 




A like order necessary to be observed 
in all assertions of propositions, 130. 
Sentence ought not to conclude with a 
feeble word, ibid. Fundamental rule in 
the construction of, 133. Sound not to 
be disregarded, 134. Two circumstan¬ 
ces to be attended to, for producing har¬ 
mony in, 134, 139. Rides of the ancient 
rhetoricians for this purpose, 135. Why 
harmony much less studied now than 
formerly, 136. English words cannot 
be so exactly measured by metrical feet, 
as those of Greek and Latin, 139 What 
required for the musical close of a sen¬ 
tence, 141 Unmeaning words introduc¬ 
ed merely to round a sentence, a great 
blemish, ibid. Sounds ought to be adapt¬ 
ed to sense, 142. 

Sermons , English compared with French, 
281 Unity an indispensable requisite 
in, 316 The subject ought to be precise 
and particular, 317. The subject ought 
not to be exhausted, ibid. Cautions 
against dryness, 318. And against con¬ 
forming to fashionable modes of preach¬ 
ing, 319. Style, 320 Quaint expres¬ 
sions, 321. Whether best written or 
delivered extempore, ibid. Delivery, 
322. Remarks on French sermons, ibid. 
Cause of the dry argumentative style 
of English sermons, 325 General ob 
servations, ibid Remarks on the pro 
per division of, 347. Conclusion, 364. 
Delivery, 365. 

Sevignd, Madame de, character of her let¬ 
ters, 416. 

Shaftesbury. Lord, observations on his 
style, 106, 113, 120. 127, 129. 142, 166. 
His general character as a writer, 209. 

Shakspeare, the merit of his plays exam¬ 
ined, 28. Was not possessed of refined 
taste, 29. Instance of his improper use 
of metaphors, 161. 164, 165. Exhibits 
passions in the language of nature, 524. 
His character as a tragic poet, 530. As 
a comic poet, 541. 

Shenstone , his pastoral ballad, 441. 

Shepherd , the proper character of, in pas¬ 
toral description, 437. 

Sheridan, his distinction between ideas and 
emotions, 373, note. 

Sherlock, Bishop, fine instance of personi¬ 
fication cited from his sermons, 174 A 
happy allusion cited from his sermons, 
320. note. 

Silius Italicus. his sublime representation 
of Hannibal. 36, note. 

Simile , distinguished from metaphor, 158, 
182. Sources of the pleasure they afford, 
ibid. Two kinds of, ibid. Requisites 
in, 183. Rules for. 185. Local proprie¬ 
ty to be adhered to in, 213. 

Simplicity applied to style, different senses 
of the term, 382. 

Smollett, improper use of figurative style, 
cited from him, 126, note. 


So/omon’ssongjdescriptivebeauties of, 456. 

Songs, Runic, the origin of Gothic history, 
ibid. 

Sophists of Greece, rise and character of. 
269. 

Sophocles , the plots of his tragedies re¬ 
markably simple, 512. Excelled in the 
pathetic, 524 His character as a tra¬ 
gic poet. 526 

Sorrow, why the emotions of, excited by 
tragedy, communicate pleasure, 515. 

Sounds, of an awful nature, affect us with 
sublimity, 32. Influence of, in the for¬ 
mation of words, 61. 

Speaker, public, must be directed more by 
his ear than by rules, 138. 

Spectator, general character of that publi¬ 
cation, 216. Critical examination of 
those papers that treat of the pleasures 
of the imagination, 217 

Speech, the power of, the distinguishing 
privilege of mankind, 9 The grammati¬ 
cal division of into eight parts, not lo¬ 
gical, 79. Of the ancients, regulated 
by musical rules, 136. 

Strada, his character as an historian, 406. 

Style, in language defined, 101. The dif¬ 
ference of, in different countries, ibid. 
The qualities of a good style, 102 Per¬ 
spicuity, ibid. Obscurity, owing to in¬ 
distinct conceptions, 103. Three requi¬ 
site qualities in perspicuity, ibid. Pre¬ 
cision, 104. A loose style, from what 
it proceeds, 105. Too great an atten¬ 
tion to precision, renders a style dry and 
barren. 111. French distinction of 
style, 113. The characters of, flow from 
peculiar modes of thinking, 195 Dif¬ 
ferent subjects require a different style, 
ibid. Ancient distinctions of, 196 The 
different kinds of, ibid. Concise and 
diffusive, on what occasions proper, 196. 
Nervous and feeble, 199. A harsh style, 
from what it proceeds, ibid. Era of the 
formation of our present style, 200. 
Dry manner described, 201. A plain 
style, ibid. Neat style, 202. Elegant 
style, 203. Florid style, 203. Natural 
style, 205. Different senses of the term 
simplicity, ibid. The Greek writers dis¬ 
tinguished for simplicity, 207. Vehe¬ 
ment style, 211. General directions 
how to attain a good style, 212 Imita¬ 
tion dangerous, 214. Style not to be 
studied to the neglect of thoughts, 215. 
Critical examination of those papers in 
the Spectator that treat of the pleasures 
of imagination, 217. Critical examina¬ 
tion of a passage in Swift’s writings,250. 
General observations, 259. See Elo~ 
quence. 

Sublimity of external objects, and sublimi¬ 
ty in writing distinguished, 32. Its im¬ 
pressions, ibid. Of space, ib. Of sounds, 
32. Violence of the elements, 32. So¬ 
lemnity, bordering on the terrible, ibid* 


556 


INDEX. 


Obscurity, not unfavourable to, 34. In 
buildings, 35. Heroism, ibid. Great 
virtue, 36. W hether there is any one 
fundamental quality in the sources of 
sublime, ibid. 

Sublimity in writing. 310. Errors in Lon 
ginus pointed out, ibid. The most an¬ 
cient writers afford the most striking in¬ 
stances of sublimity, 311. Sublime re¬ 
presentation of the Deity in Psalm xviii. 
39. And in the prophet Habakkuk, 40. 
In Moses and Isaiah, ibid. Instances of 
sublimity in Homer, ibid. In Ossian, 
42. Amplification injurious to sublimi¬ 
ty, ibid. Rhyme in English verse unfa¬ 
vourable to, 43. Strength essential to 
sublime writing, 44. A proper choice 
of circumstances essential to sublime 
description, 45. Strictures on Virgil’s 
description of Mount ^Etna, 46. The 
proper sources of the sublime, 47. Sub¬ 
limity consists in the thought, not in the 
woi ds, 48. The faults opposed to the 
sublime, ibid 

* U AnQ Duke de ’ character of h is memoirs, 

Superstition, sublime representation of its 
dominion over mankind,from Lucretius, 
34, note. 

Swift, observations on his style, 104 111 
120 , 131, 142. General character of his 
style, 202. Critical examination of the 
beginning of his proposals for correct¬ 
ing, &ic. the English tongue, 250. Con¬ 
cluding observations, 259 His Ian- 
guage, 383. Character of his epistola¬ 
ry writing, 416. 

Syllables, English, cannot be exactly mea¬ 
sured by metrical feet, as those of Greek 
and Latin, 139. 

Synecdoche, in figurative style, explained. 
157. 

Synonymous words, observations on 108 

T. 

Tacitus, character of his style, 197. His 
character as an historian, 402. His hap¬ 
py manner of introducing incidental ob¬ 
servations, ibid. Instance of his success¬ 
ful talent in historical painting, 406 
His defects as a writer, 408 
Tasso, a passage from his Gierusalemme 
distinguished by the harmony of num 
bers, 145. Strained sentiments in his 
pastorals, 443; Character of his Amin- 
ta, 487. Cntical examination of his 
poem, 496. 

Taste, true, the uses of in common life 14. 
Definition of, 16. Is more or less com¬ 
mon to all men, 17. Is an improvable 
facility, 18 How to be refined, 19. I s 
assisted by reason, 19. A good heart 
requisite to a just taste, 20. Delicacy 
and correctness the characters of perfect 
taste, ibid Whether there be any stan- 
dard of taste, 22. The diversity of, in 
different men, no evidence of their tastes 


being corrupted, ibid. The test of, re^ 
ferred to the concurring voice of tire pol¬ 
ished part of mankind, 25. Distinguish¬ 
ed from genius, 29 The sources of 
pleasure in, 30. The powers of, enlarge 
the sphere of our pleasures, 31 Imi¬ 
tations as a source of pleasure, 55. Mu¬ 
sic, ibid. Io what class the pleasures 
received from eloquence, poetry, and 
fine writing, are to be referred, 56. 
Telemachus. See Fenelon. 

Temple, Sir William, observations of his 
style, 106. Specimens, 113, 120, 122, 
125, 139. His general character as a 
writer, 208. 

Terence, beautiful instance of simplicity 
from, 209. His character as a dramatic 
writer, 538. 

Terminations of words, the variation of, 
in the Greek and Latin languages, fa¬ 
vourable to the liberty of transposition, 

Theocritus, the earliest known writer of 
pastorals, 434 His talents in painting 
rural scenery, 435. Character of his 
pastorals, 439. 

Thomson, fine passage from, where he 
animates all nature, 176. Character of 
his Seasons, 453. His eulogium by Dr. 
Johnson, ibid, note. 

Thuanus; 'his character as an historian, 398. 
Thucydides, his character as an historian" 
o96. Was the first who introduced ora¬ 
tions in historical narration, 405. 

Tillotson, Archbishop, observations'on his 
style, 106, 118, 139, 161 General cha¬ 
racter of as a writer, 208. 

Tones, the due management of, in public 
speaking, 373. 

Topics, among the ancient rhetoricians 
explained, 353. 

Tragedy, how distinguished from comedy 
506. More particular definition of, 507! 
Subject and conduct of, 508. Rise and 
progress of, 509. The three dramatic 
unities, 511. Division of the represen¬ 
tation into acts, 513. The catastrophe; 
5i4. Why the sorrow excited by tra¬ 
gedy communicates pleasures, * ibid. 
Proper idea of scenes, and how to be 
conducted,516. Characters,520. High¬ 
er degrees of morality inculcated by mo¬ 
dern than by ancient tragedy, 521. Too 
great use made of the passion of love 
on the modern stages, ibid. All trage¬ 
dies expected to be pathetic, 522. The 
proper use of moral reflections in, 524. 

Ihe proper style and versification, 525 
Brief view of the Greek stage, 526 
French tragedy, 528. English tragedy. 

030 Concluding observations, 532. 

lropes, a definition of, 148. Origin of, 150. 
i he rhetorical distinctions among frivo¬ 
lous, 156. 6 

Turnus, the character of, not favourably 
treated m the iEneid, 491. 



INDEX. 




Ihj.rpin, archbishop of Rheims, a romance 
writer, 419. 

Typographical figures of speech, what, 189. 

V. 

Vanburgh, his character as a dramatic 
writer, 542. 

Verbs, their nature and office explained, 
89. No sentence complete without a 
verb, expressed or implied, 90. The 
tenses, ibid. The advantage of English 
over the Latin, in the variety of tenses, 
91. Active and passive, ibid Are the 
most artificial and complex of all the 
parts of speech, 92. 

Verse , blank, more favourable to sublimity 
than rhyme, 43. Instructions for the 
reading of, 371. Construction of, 431. 

Virgil , instances of sublimity in, 33, 45, 
46. Of harmony, 145, 146. Simplicity 
oftanguage, 149. Figurative language, 
357, 174, 179. Specimens of his pasto¬ 
ral descriptions, 435, ?ioife,438. Charac¬ 
ter of his pastorals, 439. His Georgies, 
a perfect model of didactic poetry, 447. 
Beautiful descriptions in his .®neid,456. 
Critical examination of that poem, 489. 
Compared with Homer, 491. 

Virtue , high degrees of, a source of the 
sublime, 36. A necessary ingredient to 
form an eloquent orator, 378. 

Vision, the figure of speech so* termed, in 
what it consists, 190. 

Unities, dramatic, the advantages of ad¬ 
hering to, 511. Why the moderns are 
less restricted to the unities of time and 
place than the ancients, 518 

Voice, the powers of, to be studied in pub¬ 
lic speaking, 366 

Voiture , character of his epistolary wri¬ 
tings, 416. 


657 

Voltaire,his character as an historian,409. 
Critical examinati >n of his Henriade, 
502. His argument for the use of rhyme 
in dramatic composition, 625. His cha¬ 
racter as a tragic poet, 529. 

Vossius, Joannes Gerardus, character of 
his writings on eloquence, 385. 

W. 

Waller, the first English poet who brought 
couplets into vogue, 432. 

Wit, is to be very sparingly used at the 
bar, 304. 

Words, obsolete, and new coined, incon¬ 
gruous with purity of style, 103. Bad 
consequences of their being ill chosen, 
104. Observations on those teimed sy¬ 
nonymous, 108. Considered with refer¬ 
ence to sound, 134. 

Words, and things, instances of the ana¬ 
logy between, 61. 

Writers of genius, why they have been 
more numerous in one age than another, 

387. Four happy ages of, pointed out, 

388. 

Writing, two kinds of, distinguished, 72. 
Pictures, the first essay in, ibid. Hiero¬ 
glyphic, the second, 73. Chinese cha¬ 
racters, 74. Arithmetical figures, 75. 
The considerations which led to the in¬ 
vention of an alphabet, ibid. Cadmus’s 
alphabet the origin of that now used, 76. 
Historical account of the materials used 
to receive writing, 77. General remarks. 
ibid. See Grammar. 

Y. 

Young, Dr. his poetical character, 167. 
Too fond of antithesis, 188 The merit 
of Iris works examined, 451. His cha¬ 
racter as a tragic poet, 632. 


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